I  HI 


II 


i 


THE 

GENIAL    IDIOT 

HIS  VIEWS  AND   REVIEWS 


BY 

JOHN    KENDRICK    BANGS 


HARPER  &  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 

NEW    YORK    AND    LONDON 

MCM  VII  I 


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Copyright,  1908,  by  HARPER  &  BEOTHHRS. 

Alt  rights  reserved. 

Published  October,  1908. 


CONTENTS 


I.  HE   DISCUSSES   MAXIMS   AND   PROV 

ERBS  3 

II.  HE  DISCUSSES  THE  IDEAL  HUSBAND  14 

III.  THE  IDIOT'S  VALENTINE       ....  27 

IV.  HE  DISCUSSES  FINANCE 39 

V.  HE  SUGGESTS  A  COMIC  OPERA     .     .  52 

VI.  HE  DISCUSSES  FAME 64 

VII.  ON  THE  DECADENCE  OF  APRIL-FOOL'S- 

DAY 77 

VIII.  SPRING  AND  ITS  POETRY     ....  88 

IX.  ON  FLAT-HUNTING 100 

X.  THE  HOUSEMAID'S  UNION    .     .     .     .  112 

XI.  THE  GENTLE  ART  OF  BOOSTING     .     .  123 

XII.  HE   MAKES   A   SUGGESTION   TO   THE 

POET 135 

XIII.  HE  DISCUSSES  THE  Music  CURE     .  147 

XIV.  HE  DEFENDS  CAMPAIGN  METHODS    .  159 

XV.  ON  SHORT  COURSES  AT  COLLEGE     .  170 

XVI.  THE  HORSE-SHOW 182 

XVII.  SUGGESTION  TO  CHRISTMAS  SHOPPERS  194 

XVIII.  FOR  A  HAPPY  CHRISTMAS    .  205 


R11980 


THE    GENIAL    IDIOT 


THE   GENIAL  IDIOT 


HE   DISCUSSES   MAXIMS   AND   PROVERBS 

GX)D!"  cried  the  Idiot,  from  behind  the 
voluminous  folds  of  the  magazine  sec 
tion  of  his  Sunday  newspaper.  "Here's  a 
man  after  my  own  heart.  Professor  Duff, 
of  Glasgow  University,  has  come  out  with 
a  public  statement  that  the  maxims  and 
proverbs  of  our  forefathers  are  largely  hocus- 
pocus  and  buncombe.  I've  always  main 
tained  that  myself  from  the  moment  I  had 
my  first  copy-book  lesson  in  which  I  had  to 
scrawl  the  line,  'It's  a  long  lane  that  has  no 
turning, '  twenty-four  times.  And  then  that 
other  absurd  statement,  'A  stitch  in  the  side 
is  worth  two  in  the  hand' — or  something 
3 


THE   GENIAL    IDIOT 

like  it  —  I  forget  just  how  it  goes  —  what 
Tommy-rot  that  is." 

"Well,  I  don't  know  about  that,  Mr. 
Idiot,"  said  Mr.  Whitechoker,  tapping  his 
fingers  together  reflectively.  "  Certain  great 
moral  principles  are  instilled  into  the  minds 
of  the  young  by  the  old  proverbs  and  maxims 
that  remain  with  them  forever,  and  become 
a  potent  influence  in  the  formation  of 
character." 

' '  I  should  like  to  agree  with  you,  but  I 
can't,"  said  the  Idiot.  "I  don't  believe 
anything  that  is  noble  in  the  way  of  charac 
ter  was  ever  fostered  by  such  a  statement 
as  that  it's  a  long  lane  that  has  no  turning. 
In  the  first  place,  it  isn't  necessarily  true. 
I  know  a  lane  on  my  grandfather's  farm 
that  led  from  the  hen  -  coop  to  the  barn. 
There  wasn't  a  turn  nor  a  twist  in  it,  and  I 
know  by  actual  measurement  that  it  wasn't 
sixty  feet  long.  You've  got  just  as  much 
right  to  say  to  a  boy  that  it's  a  long  nose 
that  has  no  twisting,  or  a  long  leg  that  has 
no  pulling,  or  a  long  courtship  that  has  no 
kissing.  There's  infinitely  more  truth  in 
4 


THE    GENIAL    IDIOT 

those  last  two  than  in  the  original  model. 
The  leg  that's  never  pulled  doesn't  go  short 
in  a  stringent  financial  market,  and  a  court 
ship  without  a  kiss,  even  if  it  lasted  only 
five  minutes,  would  be  too  long  for  any 
self-respecting  lover." 

"I  never  thought  of  it  in  that  way/'  said 
Mr.  Whitechoker.  "Perhaps,  after  all,  the 
idea  is  ill-expressed  in  the  original." 

"Perfectly  correct,"  said  the  Idiot.  "But 
even  then,  what?  Suppose  they  had  put 
the  thing  right  in  the  beginning  and  said 
'it's  a  long  lane  that  has  no  ending.'  What's 
the  use  of  putting  a  thing  like  that  in  a  copy 
book?  A  boy  who  didn't  know  that  without 
being  told  ought  to  be  spanked  and  put  to 
bed.  Why  not  tell  him  it's  a  long  well  that 
has  no 'bottom,  or  a  long  dog  that  has  no 
wagging,  or  a  long  railroad  that  has  no  ter 
minal  facilities?" 

"Oh,  well,"  interposed  the  Bibliomaniac, 
"what's  the  use  of  being  captious?  Out  of 
a  billion  and  a  half  wise  saws  you  pick  out 
one  to  jump  on.  Because  one  is  weak,  all 
the  rest  must  come  down  with  a  crash." 
5 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

"There  are  plenty  of  others,  and  the  way 
they  refute  one  another  is  to  me  a  constant 
source  of  delight,"  said  the  Idiot.  "There's 
'Procrastination  is  the  thief  of  time/  for  in 
stance.  That's  a  clear  injunction  to  youth 
to  get  up  and  hustle,  and  he  starts  in  with 
all  the  impulsiveness  of  youth,  and  the  first 
thing  he  knows — bang!  he  runs  slap  into 
'Look  before  you  leap/  or  'Second  thoughts 
are  best.'  That  last  is  what  Samuel  Johnson 
would  have  called  a  beaut.  What  superior 
claims  the  second  thought  has  over  the  first 
or  the  seventy-seventh  thought,  that  it 
should  become  axiomatic,  I  vow  I  can't  see. 
If  it's  morality  you're  after  I  am  dead  against 
the  teachings  of  that  proverb.  The  second 
thought  is  the  open  door  to  duplicity  when 
it  comes  to  a  question  of  morals.  You  ask 
a  small  boy,  who  has  been  in  swimming  when 
he  ought  to  have  been  at  Sunday-school, 
why  his  shirt  is  wet.  His  first  thought  is 
naturally  to  reply  along  the  line  of  fact  and 
say,  'Why,  because  it  fell  into  the  pond.' 
But  second  thought  comes  along  with  visions 
of  hard  spanking  and  a  supperless  bed  in 
6 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

store  for  him,  and  suggests  the  idea  that 
'  There  was  a  leak  in  the  Sunday-school  roof 
right  over  the  place  where  I  was  sitting/  or, 
'I  sat  down  on  the  teacher's  glass  of  water.' 
That's  the  sort  of  thing  second  thought  does 
in  the  matter  of  morals. 

"  I  admit,  of  course,  that  there  are  times 
when  second  thoughts  are  better  than  first 
ones — for  instance,  if  your  first  thought  is 
to  name  the  baby  Jimmie  and  Jimmie  turns 
out  to  be  a  girl,  it  is  better  to  obey  your 
second  thought  and  call  her  Gladys  or 
Samantha — but  it  is  not  always  so,  and  I 
object  to  the  nerve  of  the  broad,  general 
statement  that  it  ^'s  so.  Sometimes  fifth 
thoughts  are  best.  In  science  I  guess  you'll 
find  that  the  man  who  thinks  the  seven 
hundred  and  ninety-seventh  thought  along 
certain  lines  has  got  the  last  and  best  end 
of  it.  And  so  it  goes — out  of  the  infinitesi 
mal  number  of  numbers,  every  mother's 
son  of  'em  may  at  the  psychological  moment 
have  a  claim  to  the  supremacy,  but  your 
self-sufficient  old  proverb-maker  falls  back 
behind  the  impenetrable  wall  of  his  own 
7 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

conceit,  and  announces  that  because  he  has 
nothing  but  second-hand  thoughts,  there 
fore  the  second  thought  is  best,  and  we,  like 
a  flock  of  sheep,  follow  this  leader,  and  go 
blatting  that  sentiment  down  through  the 
ages  as  if  it  were  proved  beyond  peradvent- 
ure  by  the  sum  total  of  human  experience." 

"Well,  you  needn't  get  mad  about  it," 
said  the  Lawyer.  "I  never  said  it — so  you 
can't  blame  me." 

"Still,  there  are  some  proverbs,"  said  Mr. 
Whitechoker,  blandly,  "that  we  may  not 
so  summarily  dismiss.  Take,  for  instance, 
'You  never  miss  the  water  till  the  well  runs 
dry.'  " 

"One  of  the  worst  of  the  lot,  Mr.  White- 
choker,"  said  the  Idiot.  "I've  missed  the 
water  lots  of  times  when  the  well  was  full 
as  ever.  You  miss  the  water  when  the  pipes 
freeze  up,  don't  you?  You — or  rather  I— 
I  sometimes  miss  the  water  like  time  at  five 
o'clock  in  the  morning  after  a  pleasant  even 
ing  with  some  jovial  friends,  when  there's 
no  end  of  it  in  the  well,  but  not  a  drop  within 
reach  of  my  fevered  hand,  and  I  haven't  the 
8 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

energy  to  grope  my  way  down-stairs  to  the 
ice-pitcher.  There's  more  water  in  that 
proverb  than  tangible  assets.  From  the 
standpoint  of  veracity  that's  one  of  the  most 
immoral  proverbs  of  the  lot — and  if  you  came 
to  apply  it  to  the  business  world — oh,  Lud ! 
As  a  rule,  these  days,  you  never  -find  the  water 
till  the  well  has  been  pumped  dry  and  put 
in  the  hands  of  a  receiver  for  the  benefit  of 
the  bond-holders.  Fact  is,  all  these  water 
proverbs  are  to  be  regarded  with  suspicion." 

"I  don't  recall  any  other,"  said  Mr.  White- 
choker. 

"Well,"  said  the  Idiot,  "there's  one,  and 
it's  the  nerviest  of  'em  all  —  'Water  never 
runs  up  hill.'  Ask  any  man  in  Wall  Street 
how  high  the  water  has  run  up  in  the  last 
five  years  and  see  what  he  tells  you.  And 
then,  'You  may  drive  a  horse  to  water,  but 
you  cannot  make  him  drink,'  is  another 
choice  specimen  of  the  Waterbury  School  of 
Philosophy.  I  know  a  lot  of  human  horses 
who  have  been  driven  to  water  lately,  and 
such  drinkers  as  they  have  become!  It's 
really  awful.  If  I  knew  the  name  of  that 
9 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

particular  Maximilian  who  invented  those 
water  proverbs  I'd  do  my  best  to  have  him 
indicted  for  doing  business  without  a  license." 

"It's  very  unfortunate,"  said  Mr.  White- 
choker,  "that  modern  conditions  should 
so  have  upset  the  wisdom  of  the  ancients." 

"It  is  too  bad/'  said  the  Idiot.  "And  I 
am  just  as  sorry  about  it  as  you  are;  but, 
after  all,  the  wisdom  of  the  ancients,  wise 
and  wisdomatic  as  it  was,  should  not  be  per 
mitted  to  put  at  nought  all  modern  thought. 
Why  not  adapt  the  wisdom  of  the  ancients 
to  modern  conditions?  You  can't  begin 
too  soon,  for  new  generations  are  constantly 
springing  up,  and  I  know  of  no  better  outlet 
for  reform  than  in  these  self-same  Spencerian 
proverbs  which  the  poor  kids  have  to  copy, 
copy,  copy,  until  they  are  sick  and  tired  of 
them.  Now,  in  the  writing-lessons,  why  not 
adapt  your  means  to  your  ends?  Why 
make  a  beginner  in  penmanship  write  over 
and  over  again,  '  A  bird  in  the  hand  is  worth 
two  in  the  bush?' — which  it  isn't,  by-the- 
way,  to  a  man  who  is  a  good  shot — when 
you  can  bear  in  on  his  mind  that  'A  dot  on 
10 


THE   GENIAL    IDIOT 

the  I  is  worth  two  on  the  T';  or,  for  the  in 
struction  of  your  school-teachers,  why  don't 
you  get  up  a  proverb  like  'It's  a  long  lesson 
that  has  no  learning'?  Or  if  you  are  inter 
ested  in  having  your  boy  brought  up  to  the 
strenuous  life,  why  don't  you  have  him  make 
sixty  copies  of  the  aphorism,  '  A  punch  in  the 
solar  is  worth  six  on  the  nose?'  You  tell 
your  children  never  to  whistle  until  they  are 
out  of  the  woods.  Now,  where  in  the  name 
of  all  that's  lovely  should  a  boy  whistle  if 
not  in  the  woods?  That's  where  birds 
whistle.  That's  where  the  wind  whistles. 
If  nature  whistles  anywhere,  it  is  in  the 
woods.  Woods  were  made  for  whistling, 
and  any  man  who  ever  sat  over  a  big  log- 
fire  in  camp  or  in  library  who  has  not  noticed 
that  the  logs  themselves  whistle  constantly 
— well,  he  is  a  pachyderm." 

"Well,  as  far  as  I  can  reach  a  conclusion 
from  all  that  you  have  said,"  put  in  Mr. 
Whitechoker,  "the  point  seems  to  be  that 
the  proverbs  of  the  ancients  are  not  suited  to 
modern  conditions,  and  that  you  think  they 
should  be  revised." 
2  11 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

''Exactly,"  said  the  Idiot. 

"It's  a  splendid  idea,"  said  Mr.  Brief. 
"But,  after  all,  you've  got  to  have  some 
thing  to  begin  on.  Possibly,"  he  added, 
with  a  wink  at  the  Bibliomaniac,  "you  have 
a  few  concrete  examples  to  show  us  what 
can  be  done." 

"Certainly,"  said  the  Idiot.  "Here  is  a 
list  of  them." 

And  as  he  rose  up  to  depart  he  handed 
Mr.  Brief  a  paper  on  which  he  had  written 
as  follows: 

"You  never  find  the  water  till  the  stock 
falls  off  twenty  points." 

"A  stitch  in  time  saves  nothing  at  all  at 
present  tailors'  rates." 

"You  look  after  the  pennies.  Somebody 
else  will  deposit  the  pounds." 

"It's  a  long  heiress  that  knows  no  yearn 
ing." 

"Second  thoughts  are  always  second." 

"Procrastination  is  the  theme  of  gos 
sips." 

"Never  put  off  to-day  what  you  can  put 
on  day  after  to-morrow." 
12 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

"Sufficient  unto  the  day  are  the  obliga 
tions  of  last  month." 

"One  good  swat  deserves  another." 

"By  Jove!"  said  Mr.  Brief,  as  he  read  them 
off,  "you  can't  go  back  on  any  of  'em,  can 
you?" 

"No,"  said  the  Bibliomaniac;  "that's  the 
great  trouble  with  the  Idiot.  Even  with 
all  his  idiocy  he  is  not  always  a  perfect  idiot." 


II 

HE   DISCUSSES  THE   IDEAL   HUSBAND 

WELL,  I  see  the  Ideal  Husband  has 
broken  out  again,"  said  the  Idiot, 
after  reading  a  short  essay  on  that  interesting 
but  rare  individual  by  Gladys  Waterbury 
Shrivelton  of  the  Woman's  Page  of  the  Sque- 
hawkett  Gazoo.  "I'd  hoped  they  had  him 
locked  up  for  good,  he's  been  so  little  in 
evidence  of  late  years." 

"Why  should  you  wish  so  estimable  an 
individual  to  be  locked  up?"  demanded  Mr. 
Pedagog,  who,  somehow  or  other,  seemed 
to  take  the  Idiot's  suggestion  as  personal. 

"To  keep  his  idealness  from  being  shat 
tered,"  said  the  Idiot.  "Nothing  against 
the  gentleman  himself,  I  can  assure  you. 
It  would  be  a  pity,  I  think,  once  you  have 
14 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

really  found  an  Ideal  Husband,  to  subject 
him  to  the  coarse  influences  of  the  world;  to 
let  him  go  forth  into  the  madding  crowd  and 
have  the  sweet  idyllic  bloom  rubbed  off  by 
the  attritions  of  the  vulgar.  I  feel  about 
the  Ideal  Husband  just  as  I  do  about  a  beau 
tiful  peachblow  vase  which  is  too  fragile, 
too  delicate  to  be  brought  into  contact  with 
the  ordinary  earthen-ware  of  society.  The 
earthen-ware  isn't  harmed  by  bumping  into 
the  peachblow,  but  the  peachblow  will  in 
evitably  turn  up  with  a  crack  here  and  a  nick 
there  and  a  hole  somewhere  else  after  such 
an  encounter.  If  I  were  a  woman  and  sud 
denly  discovered  that  I  had  an  Ideal  Hus 
band,  I  think  at  my  personal  sacrifice  I'd 
present  him  to  the  Metropolitan  Museum  of 
Art  or  immure  him  in  some  other  retreat 
where  his  perfection  would  remain  forever 
secure — say,  up  among  the  Egyptian  mum 
mies  of  the  British  Museum.  We  cannot  be 
too  careful,  Mr.  Pedagog,  of  these  rarely 
beautiful  things  that  are  now  and  again 
vouchsafed  to  us." 

"What  is  an  Ideal  Husband,  anyhow?" 
15 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

asked  Mr.  Brief.     "Has  the  recipe  for  such 
an  individual  at  last  been  discovered?" 

"Yes,"  put  in  Mrs.  Pedagog,  before  the 
Idiot  had  a  chance  to  reply,  and  here  the  dear 
old  landlady  fixed  her  eyes  firmly  and  affec 
tionately  upon  her  spouse,  the  school-master. 
"I  can  tell  you  the  recipe  for  the  Ideal  Hus 
band.  Years,  sixty-three — " 

"Sixty-two,  my  dear/'  smiled  Mr.  Peda 
gog,  "and — er — a  fraction — verging  on  six 
ty-three." 

"Years,  verging  on  sixty-three,"  said  Mrs. 
Pedagog,  accepting  the  correction.  "Char 
acter  developed  by  time  and  made  secure. 
Eyes,  blue;  disposition  when  vexed,  vexa 
tious;  disposition  when  pleased,  happy;  ir 
ritable  from  just  cause;  considerate  always; 
calm  exterior,  heart  of  gold;  prompt  in  anger 
and  quick  in  forgiveness;  and  only  one  old 
woman  in  the  world  for  him." 

"A  trifle  bald-headed,  but  a  true  friend 
when  needed,  eh?"  said  the  Idiot. 

"  I  try  to  be,"  said  Mr.  Pedagog,  pleasantly 
complacent. 

"  Well,  you  succeed  in  both."  said  the  Idiot. 
16 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

"For  your  trifling  baldness  is  evident  when 
you  remove  your  hat,  which,  like  a  true 
gentleman,  you  never  fail  to  do  at  the  break 
fast-table,  and,  after  a  fifteen  years'  experi 
ence  with  you,  I  for  one  can  say  that  I  have 
found  you  always  the  true  friend  when  I 
needed  you — I  never  told  how,  without  my 
solicitation  and  entirely  upon  your  own  in 
itiative,  you  once  loaned  me  the  money  to 
pay  Mrs.  Pedagog's  bill  over  which  she  was 
becoming  anxious." 

"John,"  cried  Mrs.  Pedagog,  severely, 
"did  you  ever  do  that?" 

"Well,  my  dear — er — only  once,  you  know, 
and  you  were  so  relieved — "  began  Mr. 
Pedagog. 

"You  should  have  lent  the  money  to  me, 
John,"  said  Mrs.  Pedagog,  "and  then  I 
should  not  have  been  compelled  to  dun  the 
Idiot." 

"I  know,  my  dear,  but  you  see  I  knew  the 
Idiot  would  pay  me  back,  and  perhaps — 
well,  only  perhaps,  my  love — you  might  not 
have  thought  of  it,"  explained  the  school 
master,  with  a  slight  show  of  embarrassment, 
17 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

"The  Ideal  Husband  is  ever  truthful, 
too,"  said  the  landlady,  with  a  smile  as  broad 
as  any. 

"Well,  it's  too  bad,  I  think,"  said  the 
Lawyer,  "that  a  man  has  to  be  verging  on 
sixty-three  to  be  an  Ideal  Husband.  I'm 
only  forty-four,  and  I  should  hate  to  think 
that  if  I  should  happen  to  get  married  within 
the  next  two  or  three  years  my  wife  would 
have  to  wait  at  least  fifteen  years  before  she 
could  find  me  all  that  I  ought  to  be.  More 
over,  I  have  been  told  that  I  have  black 
eyes." 

"With  the  unerring  precision  of  a  trained 
legal  mind,"  said  the  Idiot,  "you  have  un 
wittingly  put  your  finger  on  the  crux  of  the 
whole  matter,  Mr.  Brief.  Mrs.  Pedagog  has 
been  describing  her  Ideal  Husband,  and  I  am 
delighted  to  know  that  what  I  have  always 
suspected  to  be  the  case  is  in  fact  the  truth: 
that  her  husband  in  her  eyes  is  an  ideal  one. 
That's  the  way  it  ought  to  be,  and  that  is 
why  we  have  always  found  her  the  sweetest 
of  landladies,  but  because  Mrs.  Pedagog  pre 
fers  Mr.  Pedagog  in  this  race  for  supremacy 
18 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

in  the  domain  of  a  woman's  heart  is  no  rea 
son  why  you  who  are  only  bald-headed  in 
your  temper,  like  most  of  us,  should  not 
prove  to  be  equally  the  ideal  of  some  other 
woman — in  fact,  of  several  others.  Women 
are  not  all  alike.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  a  gen 
tleman  named  Balzac,  who  was  the  Marie 
Corelli  of  his  age  in  France,  once  committed 
himself  to  the  inference  that  no  two 
women  ever  were  alike,  so  that,  if  you  grant 
the  truth  of  old  Balzac's  inference,  the  Ideal 
Husband  will  probably  vary  to  the  extent 
of  the  latest  count  of  the  number  of  women 
in  the  world.  So  why  give  up  hope  because 
you  are  only  forty-nine?" 

" Forty-four,"  corrected  the  Lawyer. 

"Pardon  me — forty-four,"  said  the  Idiot. 
"When  you  are  in  the  roaring  forties,  five 
or  six  years  more  or  less  do  not  really  count. 
Lots  of  men  who  are  really  only  forty-two 
behave  like  sixty,  and  I  know  one  old  duf 
fer  of  forty-nine  who  has  the  manners  of 
eighteen.  The  age  question  does  not  really 
count." 

"No  —  you  are  proof  of  that,"  said  the 
19 


THE   GENIAL    IDIOT 

Bibliomaniac.    "You  have  been  twenty-four 
years  old  for  the  last  fifteen  years." 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Bib,"  said  the  Idiot. 
"You  are  one  of  the  few  people  in  the 
world  who  really  understand  me.  I  have 
tried  to  be  twenty-four  for  the  past  fifteen 
years,  and  if  I  have  succeeded,  so  much  the 
better  for  me.  It's  a  beautiful  age.  You 
feel  that  you  know  so  much  when  you're 
twenty-four.  If  it  should  turn  out  to  be 
the  answer  to  'How  old  is  Ann?'  the  lady 
should  be  congratulated.  But,  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  you  can  be  an  Ideal  Husband  at  any 
old  age." 

"  Humph !  At  seven,  for  instance ?"  drawl 
ed  Mr.  Brief. 

"Seven  is  not  any  old  age,"  retorted  the 
Idiot.  "It  is  a  very  certain  old  youth. 
Nor  does  it  depend  upon  the  color  of  the 
eyes,  so  long  as  they  are  neither  green  nor 
red.  Nobody  could  ever  make  an  Ideal 
Husband  out  of  a  green-eyed  man,  or  a  chap 
given  to  the  red  eye,  either — 

"It  all  depends  upon  the  kind  of  a  man 
you  are,  eh?"  said  the  Bibliomaniac. 
20 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

"Not  a  bit  of  it,"  said  the  Idiot.  "It 
depends  on  the  kind  of  wife  you've  got,  and 
that's  why  I  say  that  the  Ideal  Husband 
varies  to  the  extent  of  the  latest  count  of 
the  women  in  the  world.  Take  the  case  of 
Mr.  Pedagog  here.  Mrs.  Pedagog  accuses 
him  of  being  an  Ideal  Husband,  and  he, 
without  any  attempt  at  evasion,  acknowl 
edges  the  corn,  like  the  honorable  gentleman 
he  is.  But  can  you  imagine  Mr.  Pedagog 
being  an  Ideal  Husband  to  some  lady  in  the 
Four  Hundred,  with  a  taste  for  grand  opera 
that  strikes  only  on  the  box;  with  a  love  for 
Paris  gowns  that  are  worth  a  fortune;  with 
the  midnight  supper  and  cotillion  after 
habit  firmly  intrenched  in  her  character; 
with  an  ambition  to  shine  all  summer  at 
Newport,  all  autumn  at  Lenox,  all  winter 
at  New  York,  with  a  dash  to  England  and 
France  in  the  merry,  merry  springtime? 
Do  you  suppose  our  friend  John  Pedagog 
here  would  be  in  it  with  Tommie  Goldilocks 
Van  Varick  as  the  Ideal  Husband  of  such  a 
woman?  Not  on  your  life.  Well,  then,  take 
Tommie  Goldilocks  Van  Varick,  who'd  be 
21 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

the  Ideal  Spouse  of  this  brilliant  social  light 
Mrs.  Van  Varick.  How  would  he  suit  Mrs. 
Pedagog,  rising  at  eleven-thirty  every  day 
and  yelling  like  mad  for  the  little  blue  bottle 
which  clears  the  head  from  the  left-over  cob 
webs  of  yesterday;  eating  his  egg  and  drink 
ing  his  coffee  with  a  furrow  in  his  brow  al 
most  as  deep  as  the  pallor  of  his  cheek,  and 
now  and  then  making  a  most  awful  grimace 
because  the  interior  of  his  mouth  feels  like  a 
bargain  day  at  the  fur-counter  of  a  depart 
ment  store;  spending  his  afternoon  sitting 
in  the  window  of  the  Hunky  Dory  Club 
ogling  the  passers-by  and  making  bets  on 
such  important  questions  as  whether  more 
hansoms  pass  up  the  Avenue  than  down,  or 
whether  the  proportion  of  red-haired  girls 
to  white  horses  is  as  great  between  three  and 
four  P.M.  as  between  five  and  six — 

"I  don't  see  how  a  woman  could  stand  a 
man  like  that,"  said  Mrs.  Pedagog.  "In 
deed,  I  don't  see  where  his  ideal  qualities 
come  in,  anyhow,  Mr.  Idiot.  I  think  you 
are  wrong  in  putting  him  among  the  Ideal 
Husbands  even  for  Mrs.  Van  Varick." 
22 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

"No,  I  am  not  wrong,  for  he  is  indeed  the 
very  essence  of  her  ideal  because  he  doesn't 
make  her  stand  him,"  said  the  Idiot.  "He 
never  bothers  Mrs.  Van  Varick  at  all.  On 
the  first  of  every  month  he  sends  her  a  check 
for  a  good  round  sum  with  which  she  can 
pay  her  bills.  He  presents  her  with  a  town 
house  and  a  country  house,  and  a  Limou 
sine  car,  and  all  the  furs  she  can  pos 
sibly  want ;  provides  her  with  an  opera-box, 
and  never  fails,  when  he  himself  goes  to  the 
opera,  to  call  upon  her  and  pay  his  respects 
like  a  gentleman.  If  she  sustains  heavy 
losses  at  bridge,  he  makes  them  good,  and 
when  she  gives  a  dinner  to  her  set,  or  to  some 
distinguished  social  lion  from  other  zoos, 
Van  Varick  is  always  on  hand  to  do  the  hon 
ors  of  his  house,  and  what  is  supposed  to  be 
his  table.  He  and  Mrs.  Van  Varick  are  on 
the  most  excellent  terms;  in  fact,  he  treats 
her  with  more  respect  than  he  does  any 
other  woman  he  knows,  never  even  suggest 
ing  the  idea  of  a  flirtation  with  her.  In 
other  words,  he  does  not  interfere  with  her 
in  any  way,  which  is  the  only  kind  of 
23 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

man   in    the    world    she    could   be    happy 
with." 

"It's  perfectly  awful!"  cried  Mrs.  Peda- 
gog.  "If  they  never  see  each  other,  what 
on  earth  did  they  ever  get  married  for?" 

"Protection,"  said  the  Idiot.  "And  it 
is  perfectly  splendid  in  its  results.  Mrs.  Van 
Varick,  being  married  to  so  considerate  an 
absentee,  is  able  to  go  about  very  much  as 
she  pleases  backed  with  the  influence  and 
affluence  of  the  Van  Varick  name.  This  as 
plain  little  Miss  Floyd  Poselthwaite  she  was 
unable  to  do.  She  has  now  an  assured  po 
sition,  and  is  protected  against  the  chance 
of  marrying  a  man  who,  unlike  Van  Varick, 
would  growl  at  her  expenditures,  object  to 
her  friends,  and  insist  upon  coming  home 
to  dinner  every  night,  and  occasionally  turn 
up  at  breakfast." 

"Sweet  life,"  said  the  Bibliomaniac.  "And 
what  does  the  Willieboy  husband  get  out 
of  it?" 

"Pride,  protection,  and  freedom,"  said  the 
Idiot.  "He's  as  proud  as  Punch  when  he 
sees  Mrs.  Van  V.  swelling  about  town  with 
24 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

her  name  kept  as  standing  matter  in  every 
society  column  in  the  country.  His  freedom 
he  enjoys,  just  as  she  enjoys  hers.  If  he 
doesn't  turn  up  for  six  weeks  she  never  asks 
any  questions,  and  so  Van  Varick  can  live 
on  easy  terms  with  the  truth.  If  he  sits  up 
all  night  over  a  game  of  cards,  there's  no 
body  to  chide  him  for  doing  so,  and — 

"But  where  does  his  protection  come  in? 
That's  what  I  can't  see,"  said  the  Biblio 
maniac. 

"It's  as  plain  as  a  pike-staff,"  said  the 
Idiot.  "With  Mrs.  Van  Varick  on  the  lapis, 
Tommie  is  safe  from  designing  ladies  who 
might  marry  him  for  his  money." 

"Well,  he's  a  mighty  poor  ideal!"  cried 
Mr.  Pedagog. 

"He  certainly  would  not  do  for  Mrs. 
Pedagog,"  said  the  Idiot.  "But  you  would 
yourself  be  no  better  for  Mrs.  Van  Varick. 
The  red  Indian  makes  an  Ideal  Husband  for 
the  squaw,  but  he'd  never  suit  a  daughter 
of  the  British  nobility  any  more  than  the 
Duke  of  Lacklands  would  make  a  good  hus 
band  for  dusky  little  Minnehaha.  So  I  say 
25 


THE  GENIAL   IDIOT 

what's  the  use  of  discussing  the  matter  any 
further  with  the  purpose  of  arbitrarily  set 
tling  on  what  it  is  that  constitutes  an  Ideal 
Husband  ?  We  may  all  hope  to  be  considered 
such  if  we  only  find  the  girl  that  likes  our 
particular  kind." 

"Then,"  said  Mr.  Brief,  with  a  smile, 
"your  advice  to  me  is  not  to  despair,  eh?" 

"That's  it,"  said  the  Idiot.  "I  wouldn't 
give  up,  if  I  were  you.  There's  no  telling 
when  some  one  will  come  along  to  whom 
you  appear  to  be  the  perfect  creature." 

"Good!"  cried  Mr.  Brief.  "You  are 
mighty  kind.  I  don't  suppose  you  can  give 
me  a  hint  as  to  how  soon  I  may  expect  to 
meet  the  lady?" 

"Well— no,  I  can't,"  said  the  Idiot,  "I 
don't  believe  even  Edison  could  tell  you 
about  when  to  look  for  arrivals  from  Mars." 


Ill 

THE  IDIOT'S  VALENTINE 

"TTTELL,  old  man/'  said  the  Poet,  as  the 
f  f  Idiot  entered  the  breakfast-room  on 
the  morning  of  Valentine's  day,  "how  did 
old  St.  Valentine  treat  you?  Any  results 
worth  speaking  of?" 

"Oh,  the  usual  lay-out,"  returned  the 
Idiot,  languidly.  "Nine  hundred  and  forty- 
two  passionate  declarations  of  undying  af 
fection  from  unknown  lady  friends  in  all 
parts  of  the  civilized  world;  one  thousand 
three  hundred  and  twenty-four  highly  col 
ored  but  somewhat  insulting  intimations  that 
I  had  better  go  'way  back  and  sit  down  from 
hitherto  unsuspected  gentlemen  friends  scat 
tered  from  Maine  to  California;  one  small  can 
of  salt  marked  'St.  Valentine  to  the  Idiot,' 
3  27 


THE   GENIAL    IDIOT 

with  sundry  allusions  to  the  proper  medical 
treatment  of  the  latter's  freshness,  and  a 
small  box  containing  a  rubber  bottle-stopper 
labelled  'Cork  up  and  bust/  I  can't  com 
plain." 

"Well,  you  did  come  in  for  your  share  of 
it,  didn't  you?"  said  Mr.  Brief. 

"Yes,"  said  the  Idiot,  "I  think  I  got  all 
that  was  coming  to  me,  and  I  wouldn't  have 
minded  it  if  I  hadn't  had  to  pay  three  dollars 
over-due  postage  on  'em.  1  don't  bother 
much  if  some  anonymous  chap  off  in  the 
wilds  of  Kalikajoo  takes  the  trouble  to  send 
me  a  funny  picture  of  a  monkey  grinding  a 
hand-organ  with  'the  loving  regards  of  your 
brother,'  or  if  somebody  else  who  is  afraid 
of  becoming  too  fond  of  me  sends  me  a  horse- 
chestnut  with  a  line  to  the  effect  that  here 
is  one  I  haven't  printed,  I  don't  feel  like 
getting  mad;  but  when  I  have  to  pay  the 
postage  on  the  plaguey  things  it  strikes  me 
it  is  nibbing  it  in  a  little  too  hard,  and  if  I 
could  find  two  or  three  of  the  senders  I'd 
spend  an  hour  or  two  of  my  time  banging 
their  heads  together." 
28 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

"I  got  off  pretty  well,"  said  the  Biblio 
maniac.  "I  only  got  one  valentine,  and 
though  it  cast  some  doubt  upon  the  quality 
of  my  love  for  books,  I  found  it  quite  amus 
ing.  I'll  read  it  to  you." 

Here  the  Bibliomaniac  took  a  small  pa 
per  from  his  pocket  and  read  the  fol 
lowing  lines : 

"  THE  HUNGRY  BIBLIOMANIAC 

"  If  only  you  would  cut  your  books 

As  often  as  your  butter, 
When  people  ask  you  what's  inside 

You  wouldn't  sit  and  sputter. 
The  reading  that  hath  made  you  full, 

The  reading  that  doth  chain  you, 
Is  not  from  books,  or  woman's  looks, 

But  fresh  from  off  the  menu." 


"What  do  you  think  or  that?"  asked  the 
Bibliomaniac,  with  a  chuckle,  as  he  folded 
up  his  valentine  and  stowed  it  away  in  his 
pocket  once  more. 

"I  think  I  can  spot  the  sender,"  said  the 
29 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

Idiot,  fixing  his  eyes  sternly  upon  the  Poet. 
"It  takes  genius  to  get  up  a  rhyme  like 
'menu'  and  'chain  you/  and  I  know  of  only 
one  man  at  this  board  or  at  any  other  who 
is  equal  to  the  task." 

"If  you  mean  me,"  retorted  the  Poet, 
flushing,  "you  are  mightily  mistaken.  I 
wouldn't  waste  a  rhyme  like  that  on  a  per 
sonal  valentine  when  I  could  tack  it  on  to 
the  end  of  a  sonnet  and  go  out  and  sell  it 
for  two-fifty." 

"Then  you  didn't  do  it,  eh?"  demanded 
the  Idiot. 

"No.  Did  you?"  asked  the  Poet,  with 
his  eyes  twinkling. 

"Sir,"  said  the  Idiot,  "if  I  had  done  it, 
would  I  have  had  the  unblushing  effrontery 
to  say,  as  I  just  now  did  say,  that  its  author 
was  a  genius?" 

"Well,  we're  square,  anyhow,"  said  the 
Poet.  "You  cast  me  under  suspicion,  to  be 
gin  with,  and  it  was  only  fair  that  I  should 
whack  back.  I  got  a  valentine  myself,  and 
I  suspect  it  was  from  the  same  hand.  It 
runs  like  this: 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 
"  TO  THE  MINOR  POET 

"  You  do  not  pluck  'the  fairy  flowers 

That  bloom  on  high  Parnassus, 
Nor  do  you  gather  thistles  like 

Some  of  those  mystic  asses 
Who  browse  about  old  Helicon 
In  hope  to  fill  their  tummies; 
Yours  rather  are  those  dandy-lines — 
Gilt-topped  chrysanthemummies — 
Quite  pleasant  stuff 
That  ends  in  fluff- 
Yet  when  they  are  beholden 
Make  all  the  world  look  golden." 

"Well,"  ejaculated  the  Idiot,  "I  don't  see 
what  there  is  in  that  to  make  you  angry. 
Seems  to  me  there's  some  very  nice  com 
pliments  in  that.  For  instance,  your  stuff 
when  'tis 

'  beholden 
Makes  all  the  world  look  golden/ 

according  to  your  anonymous  correspondent. 
If  he'd  been  vicious  he  might  have  said 
something  like  this: 

31 


THE   GENIAL    IDIOT 

' — withal  so  supercilious 
They  make  the  whole  earth  bilious.'" 

The  Poet  grinned.  "I'm  not  complaining 
about  it.  It's  a  mighty  nice  little  verse,  I 
think,  and  my  only  regret  is  that  I  do  not 
know  who  the  chap  was  who  sent  it.  I'd 
like  to  thank  him.  I  had  an  idea  you 
might  help  me,"  he  said,  with  a  searching 
glance. 

"  I  will,"  said  the  Idiot.  "  If  the  man  who 
sent  you  that  ever  reveals  his  identity  to 
me  I  will  tell  him  you  fell  all  over  your 
self  with  joy  on  receiving  his  tribute  of 
admiration.  How  did  you  come  out,  Doc 
tor?" 

"Oh,  he  remembered  me,  all  right,"  said 
the  Doctor.  "Quite  in  the  same  vein,  too, 
only  he's  not  so  complimentary.  He  calls 
me  'The  Humane  Surgeon/  and  runs  into 
rhyme  after  this  fashion: 

"  O,  Doctor  Blank's  a  surgeon  bold, 

A  surgeon  most  humane,  sir; 
And  what  he  does  is  e'er  devoid 
Of  ordinary  pain,  sir. 
32 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

"If  he  were  called  to  amputate 

A  leg  hurt  by  a  bullet, 
He  wouldn't  take  a  knife  and  cut — 
But  with  his  bill  he'd  pull  it." 

"He  must  have  had  some  experience  with 
you,  Doctor,"  said  the  Idiot.  "In  fact,  he 
knows  you  so  well  that  I  am  inclined  to 
think  that  the  writer  of  that  valentine  lives 
in  this  house,  and  it  is  just  possible  that  the 
culprit  is  seated  at  this  table  at  this  moment/' 

"I  think  it  very  likely,"  said  the  Doctor, 
dryly.  "He's  a  fresh  young  man,  five  feet 
ten  inches  in  height — 

"Pooh— pooh!"  said  the  Idiot.  "That's 
the  worst  description  of  Mr.  Brief  I  ever 
heard.  Mr.  Brief,  in  the  first  place,  is  not  a 
young  man,  and  he  isn't  fresh — 

"I  didn't  mean  Mr.  Brief,"  said  the  Doc 
tor,  significantly. 

"Then  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  your 
self  to  intimate  that  Mr.  Whitechoker,  a 
clergyman,  would  stoop  to  the  writing  of 
such  a  rhyme  as  that,"  cried  the  Idiot. 
"People  nowadays  seem  to  me  to  be  utterly 
33 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

lacking  in  that  respect  for  the  cloth  to  which 
it  is  entitled.  Mr.  Brief,  if  you  really  wrote 
that  thing  you  owe  it  to  Mr.  Whitechoker 
to  own  up  and  thus  relieve  him  of  the  sus 
picion  the  Doctor  has  so  unblushingly  cast 
upon  him." 

"I  can  prove  an  alibi/'  said  the  Lawyer. 
"I  could  no  more  turn  a  rhyme  than  I  could 
play  '  Parsifal ;  on  a  piano  with  one  finger, 
and  I  wouldn't  if  I  could.  I  judge,  from  what 
I  know  of  the  market  value  of  poems  these 
days,  that  that  valentine  of  the  Doctor's  is 
worth  about  two  dollars.  It  would  take 
me  a  century  to  write  it,  and  inasmuch  as 
my  time  is  worth  at  least  five  dollars  a  year 
it  stands  to  reason  that  I  would  not  put  in 
five  hundred  dollars'  worth  of  effort  on  a 
two-dollar  job.  So  that  lets  me  out.  By- 
the-way,  I  got  one  of  these  trifles  myself. 
Want  to  hear  it?" 

"I  am  just  crazy  to  hear  it,"  said  the 
Idiot.  "If  any  man  has  reduced  you  to 
poetry,  Mr.  Brief,  he's  a  great  man.  With 
all  your  many  virtues,  you  seem  to  me  to  fit 
into  a  poetical  theme  about  as  snugly  as  an 
34 


THE   GENIAL    IDIOT 

automobile  with  full  power  on  in  a  china- 
shop.     By  all  means  let  us  have  it." 

"This  modern  St.  Valentine  of  ours  has 
reduced  the  profession  to  verse  with  a  nicety 
that  elicits  my  most  profound  admiration," 
said  Mr.  Brief.  "Just  listen  to  this: 

"  The  Lawyer  is  no  wooer,  yet 

To  sue  us  is  his  whim. 
The  Lawyer  is  no  tailor,  but 

We  get  our  suits  from  him. 
The  longest  things  in  all  the  world — 

They  are  the  Lawyer's  briefs, 
And  all  the  joys  he  gets  in  life 

Are  other  people's  griefs. 
Yet  spite  of  all  the  Lawyer's  faults 

He's  one  point  rather  nice: 
He'll  not  remain  lest  you  retain 

And  never  gives  advice." 

"The  author  of  these  valentines,"  said  the 
Doctor,  "is  to  be  spotted,  the  way  I  diagnose 
the  case,  by  his  desire  that  professional  peo 
ple  should  be  constantly  giving  away  their 
services.  He  objects  to  the  Doctor's  bill 
and  he  slaps  sarcastically  at  the  Lawyer  be 
cause  he  doesn't  give  advice.  That's  why  I 
35 


T  HE   GENIAL    IDIOT 

suspect  the  Idiot.  He's  a  professional  Idiot, 
and  yet  he  gives  his  idiocy  away." 

"When  did  I  ever  give  myself  away?" 
demanded  the  Idiot.  "You  are  talking 
wildly,  Doctor.  The  idea  of  your  trying  to 
drag  me  into  this  thing  is  preposterous. 
Suppose  you  show  down  your  valentine  and 
see  if  it  is  in  my  handwriting." 

"Mine  is  typewritten,"  said  the  Doc 
tor. 

"So  is  mine,"  said  the  Bibliomaniac. 

"Mine,  too,"  said  the  Poet. 

"Same  here,"  said  Mr.  Brief. 

"Well,  then,"  said  the  Idiot,  "I'm  willing 
to  write  a  page  in  my  own  hand  without  any 
attempt  to  disguise  it,  and  let  any  hand 
writing  expert  decide  as  to  whether  there  is 
the  slightest  resemblance  between  my  chi- 
rography  and  these  typewritten  sheets  you 
hold  in  your  hand." 

"That's  fair  enough,"  said  Mr.  White- 
choker. 

"Besides,"  persisted  the  Idiot,  "I've  re 
ceived  one  of  the  things  myself,  and  it  '11 
make  your  hair  curl,  if  you've  got  any. 
36 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

Typewritten  like  the  rest  of  'em.     Shall  I 
read  it?" 

By  common  consent  the  Idiot  read  the 
following: 

"  Idiot,  zany,  brain  of  hare, 
Dolt  and  noodle  past  compare, 
Buncombe,  bosh,  and  verbal  slosh, 
Mind  of  nothing,  full  of  josh, 
Madman,  donkey,  dizzard-pate, 
U.  S.  Zero  Syndicate, 
Dull,  depressing,  lack  of  wit, 
Incarnation  of  the  nit. 
Minus,  numskull,  drivelling  baby, 
Greenhorn,  dunce,  and  dotard  Gaby; 
All  the  queer  and  loony  chorus 
Found  in  old  Roget's  Thesaurus, 
Flat  and  crazy  through  and  through' 
That,  O  Idiot — that  is  you. 
Let  me  tell  you,  sir,  in  fine, 
/  won't  be  your  Valentine. 

"What  do  you  think  of  that?"  asked  the 
Idiot,  when  he  had  finished.  "Wouldn't 
that  jar  you?" 

"I  think  it's  perfectly  horrid/'  said  Mrs. 
Pedagog.  "Mary,  pass  the  pancakes  to  the 
37 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

Idiot.  Mr.  Idiot,  let  me  hand  you  a  full  cup 
of  coffee.  John,  hand  the  Idiot  the  syrup. 
Why,  how  a  thing  like  that  should  be  al 
lowed  to  go  through  the  mails  passes  me!" 

And  the  others  all  agreed  that  the  land 
lady's  indignation  was  justified,  because 
they  were  fond  of  the  Idiot  in  spite  of  his 
faults.  They  would  not  see  him  abused, 
at  any  rate. 

"Say,  old  man/'  said  the  Poet,  later,  "I 
really  thought  you  sent  those  other  valen 
tines  until  you  read  yours." 

"I  thought  you  would,"  said  the  Idiot. 
"That's  the  reason  why  I  worked  up  that 
awful  one  on  myself.  That  relieves  me  of 
all  suspicion." 


IV 

HE   DISCUSSES  FINANCE 

A  MESSENGER  had  just  brought  a  "col 
lect"  telegram  for  the  Doctor,  and 
that  gentleman,  after  going  through  all  his 
pockets,  and  finding  nothing  but  a  bunch 
of  keys  and  a  prescription-pad,  made  the 
natural  inquiry: 

"  Any  body  got  a  quarter?" 

"I  have/'  said  the  Idiot.  "One  of  the 
rare  mintage  of  1903,  circulated  for  a  short 
time  only  and  warranted  good  as  new." 

"I  didn't  know  the  1903  quarter  was 
rare,"  said  the  Bibliomaniac,  who  prided 
himself  on  being  a  numismatist  of  rare  abil 
ity.  "Who  told  you  the  1903  quarter  was 
rare?" 

"My  old  friend,  Experience,"  said  the  Idiot. 
39 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

"What's  rare  about  it?"  demanded  the 
Bibliomaniac. 

"Why — it's  what  they  call  ready  money, 
spot  cash,  the  real  thing  with  the  water 
squeezed  out,  selling  at  par  on  sight/'  ex 
plained  the  Idiot.  "Millions  of  people  never 
saw  one,  and  under  modern  conditions  it  is 
very  difficult  to  amass  them  in  any  consider 
able  quantity.  What  is  worse,  even  if  you 
happen  to  get  one  of  them  it  is  next  to  im 
possible  to  hang  on  to  it  without  unusual 
effort.  If  you  have  a  1903  quarter  in  your 
pocket,  somehow  or  other  the  idea  that  it  is 
in  your  possession  seems  to  communicate 
itself  to  others,  and  every  effort  is  made  to 
lure  it  away  from  you  on  some  pretext  or 
other." 

"Excuse  me  for  interrupting  this  lecture 
of  yours,  Mr.  Idiot,"  said  the  Doctor,  ami 
ably,  "but  would  you  mind  lending  me  that 
quarter  to  pay  this  messenger?  I've  left 
my  change  in  my  other  clothes." 

"What  did  I  tell  you?"  cried  the  Idiot, 
triumphantly.  "The  words  are  no  sooner  out 
of  my  mouth  than  they  are  verified.  Hardly 
40 


THE   GENIAL    IDIOT 

a  minute  elapses  from  the  time  Doctor  Cap 
sule  learns  that  I  have  that  quarter  before 
he  puts  in  an  application  for  it." 

"Well,  I  renew  the  application  in  spite  of 
its  rarity/7  laughed  the  Doctor.  "It's  even 
rarer  with  me  than  it  is  with  you.  Shell 
out — there's  a  good  chap." 

"I  will  if  you'll  put  up  a  dollar  for  se 
curity,"  said  the  Idiot,  extracting  the  coin 
from  his  pocket,  "and  give  me  a  demand 
note  at  thirty  days  for  the  quarter." 

"I  haven't  got  a  dollar,"  said  the  Doctor. 

"Well,  what  other  collateral  have  you  to 
offer?"  asked  the  Idiot.  " I  won't  take  buck 
wheat-cakes,  or  muffins,  or  your  share  of 
the  sausages,  mind  you.  They  come  under 
the  head  of  wild-cat  securities  —  here  to 
day  and  gone  to-morrow." 

"My,  but  you're  a  Shylock!"  ejaculated 
Mr.  Brief. 

"Not  a  bit  of  it,"  retorted  the  Idiot.  "If 
I  were  Shylock  I'd  be  willing  to  take  a  steak 
for  security,  but  there's  none  of  the  pound 
of  flesh  business  about  me.  I  simply  pro 
ceed  cautiously,  like  any  modern  financial 
41 


THE   GENIAL    IDIOT 

institution  that  intends  to  stay  in  the  ring 
more  than  two  weeks.  I'm  not  one  of  your 
fortnightly  trust  companies  with  an  oak 
table,  an  unpaid  bill  for  office  rent,  and  a 
patent  reversible  disappearing  president  for 
its  assets.  I  do  business  on  the  national- 
bank  principle:  millions  for  the  rich,  but 
not  one  cent  for  the  man  that  needs  the 
money." 

"I  tell  you  what  I'll  do,"  said  the  Doctor. 
"If  you'll  lend  me  that  quarter,  I  won't 
charge  you  a  cent  for  my  professional  ser 
vices  next  time  you  need  them." 

"That's  a  large  offer,  but  I'm  afraid  of  it," 
replied  the  Idiot.  "It  partakes  of  the  na 
ture  of  a  speculation.  It's  dealing  in  futures, 
which  is  not  a  safe  thing  for  a  financial  in 
stitution  to  do,  I  don't  care  how  solid  it  is. 
You  don't  catch  the  Chemistry  National 
Bank  lending  money  to  anybody  on  mere 
prospects,  and,  what  is  more,  in  my  case, 
I'd  have  to  get  sick  to  win  out.  No,  Doc 
tor,  that  proposition  does  not  appeal  to 
me." 

"Looks  hopeless,  doesn't  it,"  said  the 
42 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

Doctor.     "Mary,  tell  the  boy  to  wait  while 
I  run  up-stairs — 

"I  wouldn't  do  that,"  said  the  Idiot,  in 
terrupting.  "The  matter  can  be  arranged 
in  another  way.  I  honestly  don't  like  to 
lend  money,  believing  with  Polonius  that 
it's  a  bad  thing  to  do.  As  the  Governor  of 
North  Carolina  said  to  the  Governor  of  South 
Carolina,  who  owed  him  a  hundred  dollars, 
'It's  a  long  time  between  payments  on  ac 
count/  and  that  sort  of  thing  breaks  up  fam 
ilies,  not  to  mention  friendships.  But  I  will 
match  you  for  it." 

"How  can  I  match  when  I  haven't  any 
thing  to  match  with?"  said  the  Doctor,  grow 
ing  a  trifle  irritable. 

"You  can  match  your  credit  against  my 
quarter,"  said  the  Idiot.  "We  can  make  it 
a  mental  match — a  sort  of  Christian  Science 
gamble.  What  arn  I  thinking  of,  heads  or 
tails?" 

"Heads,"  said  the  Doctor. 

"By  Jove,  that's  hard  luck!"  ejaculated 
the  Idiot.  "You  lose.  I  was  thinking  of 
tails." 

4  43 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

"Oh,  thunder!"  cried  the  Doctor,  impa 
tiently. 

"Try  it  again,  double  or  quits.  What  am 
I  thinking  of?"  said  the  Idiot. 

"Heads,"  repeated  the  Doctor. 

"Somebody  must  have  told  you.  Heads 
it  is.  You  win.  We  are  quits,  Doctor," 
said  the  Idiot. 

"But  I  am  still  without  the  quarter,"  the 
physician  observed. 

"Yep,"  said  the  Idiot,  "But  there's  one 
more  way  out  of  it.  I'll  buy  the  telegram 
from  you— C.O.  D." 

"Done,"  said  the  Doctor,  holding  out  the 
message.  "Here's  your  goods." 

"And  there's  your  money,"  said  the  Idiot, 
tossing  the  quarter  across  the  table.  "If 
you  want  to  buy  this  message  back  at  any 
time  within  the  next  sixty  days,  Doctor,  I'll 
give  you  the  refusal  of  it  without  extra 
charge." 

And  he  folded  the  paper  up  and  put  it 
away  in  his  pocketbook. 

"  Do  the  banks  really  ask  for  so  much  secu 
rity  when  they  make  a  loan?"  asked  the  Poet. 
44 


THE  GENIAL   IDIOT 

"Hear  him,  will  you!"  cried  the  Idiot. 
"There's  your  lucky  man.  He's  never  had 
to  face  a  bank  president  in  order  to  avoid 
the  cold  glances  of  the  grocer.  No  cashier 
ever  asked  him  how  many  times  he  had 
been  sentenced  to  states-prison  before  he'd 
discount  his  note.  Do  they  ask  security? 
Security  isn't  the  name  for  it.  They  de 
mand  a  blockade,  establish  a  quarantine. 
They  require  the  would-be  debtor  to  build 
up  a  wall  as  high  as  Chimborazo  and  as  in 
vulnerable  as  Gibraltar  between  them  and 
the  loss  before  they  will  part  with  a  dime. 
Why,  they  wouldn't  discount  a  note  to  his 
own  order  for  Andrew  Carnegie  for  seven 
teen  cents  without  his  indorsement.  Do 
they  ask  security!" 

"Well,  I  didn't  know,"  said  the  Poet.  "I 
never  had  anything  to  do  with  banks  except 
as  a  small  depositor  in  the  savings-bank." 

"  Fortunate  man,"  said  the  Idiot.  "  I  wish 
I  could  say  as  much.  I  borrowed  five  hun 
dred  dollars  once  from  a  bank,  and  what  the 
deuce  do  you  suppose  they  did?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  the  Poet.  "  What ?" 
45 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

"They  made  me  pay  it  back,"  said  the 
Idiot,  mournfully,  "although  I  needed  it  just 
as  much  when  it  was  due  as  when  I  borrowed 
it.  The  cashier  was  a  friend  of  mine,  too. 
But  I  got  even  with  'em.  I  refused  to  bor 
row  another  cent  from  their  darned  old  in 
stitution.  They  lost  my  custom  then  and 
there.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  that  inconsider 
ate  act  I  should  probably  have  gone  on  bor 
rowing  from  them  for  years,  and  instead  of 
owing  them  nothing  to-day,  as  I  do,  I  should 
have  been  their  debtor  to  the  tune  of  two  or 
three  thousand  dollars." 

"Don't  you  take  any  stock  in  what  the 
Idiot  tells  you  in  that  matter,  Mr.  Poet," 
said  Mr.  Brief.  "The  national  banks  are 
perfectly  justified  in  protecting  themselves 
as  they  do.  If  they  didn't  demand  collateral 
security  they'd  be  put  out  of  business  in 
fifteen  minutes  by  people  like  the  Idiot,  who 
consider  it  a  hardship  to  have  to  pay  up." 

"As  the  lady  said  when   she  was   asked 

the  name  of  her  favorite  author,  'Pshaw!'" 

retorted  the  Idiot.      "Likewise    fudge  —  a 

whole  panful  of  fudges!     I  don't  object  to 

46 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

paying  my  debts;  fact  is,  I  know  of  no 
greater  pleasure.  What  I  do  object  to  is 
the  kind  of  collateral  the  banks  demand. 
They  always  want  something  a  man  hasn't 
got  and,  in  most  cases,  hasn't  any  chance  of 
getting.  If  I  had  a  thousand-dollar  bond  I 
wouldn't  need  to  borrow  five  hundred  dol 
lars,  yet  when  I  go  to  the  bank  and  ask  for 
the  five  hundred  the  thousand-dollar  bond 
is  what  they  ask  for." 

"Not  always,"  said  Mr.  Brief.  "If  you 
can  get  your  note  indorsed  you  can  get  the 
money." 

"That's  true  enough,  but  fellows  like  my 
self  can't  always  find  a  captain  of  industry 
who  is  willing  to  take  a  long-shot  to  do  the 
indorsing,"  said  the  Idiot.  "Besides,  under 
the  indorsement  plan  you  merely  ask  an 
other  man  to  be  responsible  for  your  debt, 
and  that  isn't  fair.  The  whole  system  is 
wrong.  Every  man  to  his  own  collateral,  I 
say.  Give  me  the  bank  that  will  lend  money 
to  the  chap  that  needs  it  on  the  security  of 
his  own  product.  Mr.  Whitechoker,  say,  is 
short  on  cash  and  long  on  sermons.  My 
47 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

style  of  bank  would  take  one  barrel  of  his 
sermons  and  salt  'em  down  in  the  safe- 
deposit  company  as  security  for  the  money 
he  needs.  The  Poet  here,  finding  the  summer 
approaching  and  not  a  cent  in  hand  to  re 
plenish  his  wardrobe,  should  be  able  to  secure 
an  advance  of  two  or  three  hundred  dollars 
on  his  sonnets,  rondeaux,  and  lyrics  —  one 
dollar  for  each  two-and-a-half-dollar  sonnet, 
and  so  on.  The  grocer  should  be  able  to 
borrow  money  on  his  dried  apples,  his  vinegar 
pickles,  his  canned  asparagus,  and  other 
non-perishable  assets,  such  as  dog-biscuit, 
Roquefort  cheese,  and  California  raisins. 
The  tailor  seeking  an  accommodation  of  five 
hundred  dollars  should  not  be  asked  how 
many  times  he  has  been  sentenced  to  jail  for 
arson,  and  required  to  pay  in  ten  thousand 
shares  of  Steel  common,  in  order  to  get  his 
grip  on  the  currency,  but  should  be  approach 
ed  appropriately  and  asked  how  many  pairs 
of  trousers  he  is  willing  to  pledge  as  secu 
rity  for  the  loan." 

"I  don't  know  where  I  would  come  in  on 
that  proposition,"  said  the  Doctor.     "There 
48 


THE   GENIAL    IDIOT 

are  times  when  we  physicians  need  money, 
too." 

"Pooh!"  said  the  Idiot.  "You  are  not  a 
non-producer.  It  doesn't  take  a  very  smart 
doctor  these  days  to  produce  patients,  does 
it?  You  could  assign  your  cases  to  the 
bank.  One  little  case  of  hypochondria  alone 
ought  to  be  a  sufficient  guarantee  of  a  steady 
income  for  years,  properly  managed.  If  you 
haven't  learned  how  to  keep  your  patients 
in  such  shape  that  they  have  to  send  for  you 
two  or  three  times  a  week,  you'd  better  go 
back  to  the  medical  school  and  fit  yourself 
for  your  real  work  in  life.  You  never  knew 
a  plumber  to  be  so  careless  of  his  interests 
as  to  clean  up  a  job  all  at  once,  and  what  the 
plumber  is  to  the  household,  the  physician 
should  be  to  the  individual.  Same  way  with 
Mr.  Brief.  With  the  machinery  of  the  law 
in  its  present  shape  there  is  absolutely  no 
excuse  for  a  lawyer  who  settles  any  case  in 
side  of  fifteen  years,  by  which  time  it  is  rea 
sonable  to  suppose  his  client  will  get  into 
some  new  trouble  that  will  keep  him  going 
as  a  paying  concern  for  fifteen  more.  There 
49 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

isn't  a  field  of  human  endeavor  in  which  a 
man  applies  himself  industriously  that  does 
not  produce  something  that  should  be  a 
negotiable  security." 

"How  about  burglars?"  queried  the  Bib 
liomaniac. 

" I  stand  corrected/'  said  the  Idiot.  "The 
burglar  is  an  exception,  but  then  he  is  an 
exception  also  at  the  banks.  The  expert 
burglar  very  seldom  leaves  any  security  for 
what  he  gets  at  the  banks,  and  so  he  isn't  af 
fected  by  the  situation  one  way  or  the  other." 

"Oh,  well,"  said  Mr.  Brief,  rising,  "it's  only 
a  pipe-dream  all  the  way  through.  They 
might  start  in  on  such  a  proposition,  but  it 
would  never  last.  When  you  went  in  to  bor 
row  fifteen  dollars,  putting  up  your  idiocy 
as  collateral,  the  emptiness  of  the  whole 
scheme  would  reveal  itself." 

"You  never  can  tell,"  observed  the  Idiot. 
"Even  under  their  present  system  the  banks 
have  done  worse  than  that." 

"Never!"  cried  the  Lawyer. 

"Yes,  sir,"  replied  the  Idiot.  "Only  the 
other  day  I  saw  in  the  papers  that  a  bank 
50 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

out  in  Oklahoma  had  loaned  a  man  ten  thou 
sand  dollars  on  sixty  thousand  shares  of  Hot 
Air  preferred." 

"And  is  that  worse  than  Idiocy?"  demand 
ed  Mr.  Brief. 

"Infinitely,"  said  the  Idiot.  "If  a  bank 
lost  fifteen  dollars  on  my  idiocy  it  would  be 
out  ninety-nine  hundred  and  eighty-five  dol 
lars  less  than  that  Oklahoma  institution  is 
on  its  hot-air  loan." 

"Bosh!  What's  Hot  Air  worth  on  the  Ex 
change  to-day?" 

"As  a  selling  proposition,  zero  and  com 
missions  off,"  said  the  Idiot.  "  Fact  is, 
they've  changed  its  name.  It  is  now  known 
as  International  Nitting." 


HE   SUGGESTS   A   COMIC   OPERA 

THERE'S  a  harvest  for  you/'  said  the 
Idiot,  as  he  perused  a  recently  pub 
lished  criticism  of  a  comic  opera.  "There 
have  been  thirty-nine  new  comic  operas  pro 
duced  this  year  and  four  of  'em  were  worth 
seeing.  It  is  very  evident  that  the  Gilbert 
and  Sullivan  industry  hasn't  gone  to  the 
wall  whatever  slumps  other  enterprises  have 
suffered  from." 

"That  is  a  goodly  number/'  said  the  Poet. 
"Thirty-nine,  eh?  I  knew  there  was  a  raft 
of  them,  but  I  had  no  idea  there  were  as 
many  as  that." 

"Why  don't  you  go  in  and  do  one,  Mr. 
Poet?"  suggested  the  Idiot.  "They  tell  me 
its  as  easy  as  rolling  off  a  log.  All  you've  got 
52 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

to  do  is  to  forget  all  your  ideas  and  remember 
all  the  old  jokes  you  ever  heard,  slap  'em 
together  around  a  lot  of  dances,  write  two 
dozen  lyrics  about  some  Googoo  Belle,  hire 
a  composer,  and  there  you  are.  Hanged  if 
I  haven't  thought  of  writing  one  myself." 

"I  fancy  it  isn't  as  easy  as  it  looks,"  ob 
served  the  Poet.  "It  requires  just  as  much 
thought  to  be  thoughtless  as  it  does  to  be 
thoughtful." 

"Nonsense,"  said  the  Idiot.  "I'd  under 
take  the  job  cheerfully  if  some  manager 
Would  make  it  worth  my  while,  and,  what's 
more,  if  I  ever  got  into  the  swing  of  the  busi 
ness  I'll  bet  I  could  turn  out  a  libretto  a  day 
for  three  days  of  the  week  for  the  next  two 
months." 

"If  I  had  your  confidence  I'd  try  it," 
laughed  the  Poet,  "but,  alas!  in  making  me 
Nature  did  not  design  a  confidence  man." 

"Nonsense,  again,"  said  the  Idiot.  "Any 
man  who  can  get  the  editors  to  print  sonnets 
to  '  Diana's  Eyebrow,'  and  little  lyrics  of 
Madison  Square,  Longacre  Square,  Battery 
Place,  and  Boston  Common,  the  way  you  do, 
53 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

has  a  right  to  consider  himself  an  adept  at 
bunco.  I  tell  you  what  I'll  do  with  you: 
I'll  swap  off  my  confidence  for  your  lyrical 
facility,  and  see  what  I  can  do.  Why  can't 
we  collaborate  and  get  up  a  libretto  for  next 
season?  They  tell  me  there's  large  money 
in  it." 

"There  certainly  is  if  you  catch  on,"  said 
the  Poet.  "Vastly  more  than  in  any  other 
kind  of  writing  that  I  know.  I  don't  know 
but  that  I  would  like  to  collaborate  with  you 
on  something  of  the  sort.  What  is  your 
idea?" 

"Mind's  a  blank  on  the  subject,"  sighed 
the  Idiot.  "That's  the  reason  I  think  I  can 
turn  the  trick.  As  I  said  before,  you  don't 
need  ideas.  Better  go  without  'em.  Just 
sit  down  arid  write." 

"But  you  must  have  some  kind  of  a  story," 
persisted  the  Poet. 

"  Not  to  begin  with/ '  said  the  Idiot.  "Just 
write  your  choruses  and  songs,  slap  in  your 
jokes,  fasten  'em  together,  and  the  thing  is 
done.  First  act,  get  your  hero  and  heroine 
into  trouble.  Second  act,  get  'em  out." 
54 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

"  And  for  the  third?"  queried  the  Poet. 

"Don't  have  a  third,"  said  the  Idiot.  "A 
third  is  always  superfluous;  but,  if  you  must 
have  it,  make  up  some  kind  of  a  vaudeville 
show  and  stick  it  in  between  the  first  and 
second." 

"Tusht"  said  the  Bibliomaniac.  "That 
would  make  a  gay  comic  opera." 

"Of  course  it  would,  Mr.  Bib,"  the  Idiot 
agreed.  "And  that's  what  we  want.  If 
there's  anything  in  this  world  that  I  hate 
more  than  another  it  is  a  sombre  comic  opera. 
I've  been  to  a  lot  of  'em,  and  I  give  you  my 
word  of  honor  that  next  to  a  funeral  a  comic 
opera  that  lacks  gayety  is  one  of  the  most 
depressing  functions  known  to  modern  sci 
ence.  Some  of  'em  are  enough  to  make 
an  undertaker  weep  with  jealous  rage.  I 
went  to  one  of  'em  last  week  called  'The 
Skylark/  with  an  old  chum  of  mine  who  is 
a  surgeon.  You  can  imagine  what  sort  of 
a  thing  it  was  when  I  tell  you  that  after  the 
first  act  he  suggested  we  leave  the  theatre 
and  come  back  here  and  have  some  fun  cut 
ting  my  leg  off.  He  vowed  that  if  he  ever 
55 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

went  to  another  opera  by  the  same  people 
he'd  take  ether  beforehand." 

"I  shouldn't  think  that  would  be  neces 
sary,"  sneered  the  Bibliomaniac.  "If  it  was 
as  bad  as  all  that,  why  didn't  it  put  you  to 
sleep?" 

"It  did,"  said  the  Idiot.  "But  the  music 
kept  waking  us  up  again.  There  was  no 
escape  from  it  except  that  of  actual  physical 
flight." 

"Well,  about  this  collaboration  of  ours," 
suggested  the  Poet.  "What  do  you  think 
we  should  do  first?" 

"Write  an  opening  chorus,  of  course," 
said  the  Idiot.  "What  did  you  suppose? 
A  finale?  Something  like  this: 

"  If  you  want  to  know  who  we  are, 
Just  ask  the  Evening  Star, 

As  he  smiles  on  high 

In  the  deep-blue  sky, 
With  his  tralala-la-la-hi. 
We  are  maidens  sweet 
With  tripping  feet, 
And  the  googoo  eyes 
Of  the  skippity-hi's, 
56 


THE    GENIAL    IDIOT 

And  the  smile  of  the  fair  gazoo; 
And  you'll  find  our  names 
'Mongst  the  wondrous  dames 
Of  the  Who's  Who-hoo-hoo-hoo." 

"Get  that  sung  with  spirit  by  sixty-five 
ladies  with  blond  wigs  and  gold  slippers, 
otherwise  dressed  up  in  the  uniform  of  a  troop 
of  Russian  cavalry,  and  you've  got  your 
venture  launched." 

"Where  can  you  find  people  like  that?" 
asked  the  Bibliomaniac. 

"New  York's  full  of  'em,"  replied  the  Idiot. 

"I  don't  mean  the  people  to  act  that  sort 
of  thing — but  where  would  you  lay  your 
scene?"  explained  the  Bibliomaniac. 

"Oh,  any  old  place  in  the  Pacific  Ocean," 
said  the  Idiot.  "Make  your  own  geography 
— everybody  else  does.  There's  a  million  isl 
ands  out  there  of  one  kind  or  another,  and 
as  defenceless  as  a  two-weeks '-old  infant. 
If  you  want  a  real  one,  fish  it  out  and  fire 
ahead.  If  you  don't,  make  one  up  for  your- 
self  and  call  it  'The  Isle  of  Piccolo/  or  some 
thing  of  that  sort.  After  you've  got  your 
chorus  going,  introduce  your  villain,  who 
57 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

should  be  a  man  with  a  deep  bass  voice  and 
a  piratical  past.  He's  the  chap  who  rules 
the  roost  and  is  going  to  marry  the  heroine 
to-morrow.  That  will  make  a  bully  song: 

"I'm  a  pirate  bold 

With  a  heart  so  cold 
That  it  turns  the  biggest  joys  to  solemn  sorrow; 

And  the  hero-ine, 

With  her  eyes  so  fine, 
I  am  going  to — marry — to-morrow. 

CHORUS 

"  He  is  go-ing  to-marry — to-morrow 
The  maid  with  a  heart  full  of  sorrow; 
For  her  we  are  sorry 
For  she  weds  to-morry — 
She  is  going  to-marry — to-morrow." 

"Gee!"  added  the  Idiot,  enthusiastically, 
"can't  you  almost  hear  that  already?" 

"I  am  sorry  to  say, "said Mr. Brief, "that  I 
can.  You  ought  to  callyour  heroine Dri velina. " 

"Splendid!"  cried  the  Idiot.     "  Dri  velina 

goes.     Well,  then,  on  comes  Drivelina,  and 

this  beast  of  a  pirate  grabs  her  by  the  hand 

and  makes  love  to  her  as  if  he  thought  woo- 

58 


THE   GENIAL    IDIOT 

ing  was  a  game  of  snap-the-whip.  She  sings 
a  soprano  solo  of  protest,  and  the  pirate 
summons  his  hirelings  to  cast  Drivelina  into 
a  Donjuan  cell,  when  boom!  an  American 
war-ship  appears  on  the  horizon.  The  crew, 
under  the  leadership  of  a  man  with  a  squeaky 
tenor  voice,  named  Lieutenant  Somebody 
or  Other,  comes  ashore,  puts  Drivelina  under 
the  protection  of  the  American  flag,  while 
his  crew  sing  the  following: 

"  We  are  jackies,  jackies,  jackies, 
And  we  smoke  the  best  tobaccys 

You  can  find  from  Zanzibar  to  Honeyloo. 
And  we  fight  for  Uncle  Sammy, 
Yes,  indeed  we  do,  for  damme 

You  can  bet  your  life  that  that's  the  thing 
to  do, 

Doodle-do! 

You  can  bet  your  life  that  that's  the  thing  to 
doodle — doodle — doodle — doodle-do." 

"Eh!    What?"  demanded  the  Idiot. 

"Well— what  yourself?"  asked  the  Law 
yer.  "This  is  your  job.  What  next?" 

"Well  —  the  pirate  gets  lively,  tries  to 
assassinate  the  lieutenant,  who  kills  half 
s  59 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

the  natives  with  his  sword,  and  is  about  to 
slay  the  pirate  when  he  discovers  that  he  is 
his  long-lost  father,"  said  the  Idiot.  "  The 
heroine  then  sings  a  pathetic  love  -  song 
about  her  baboon  baby,  in  a  green  light  to 
the  accompaniment  of  a  lot  of  pink  satin 
monkeys  banging  cocoanut-shells  together. 
This  drowsy  lullaby  puts  the  lieutenant  and 
his  forces  to  sleep,  and  the  curtain  falls  on 
their  capture  by  the  pirate  and  his  followers, 
with  the  chorus  singing: 

"  Hooray  for  the  pirate  bold, 
With  his  pockets  full  of  gold; 

He's  going  to  marry  to-morrow. 
To-morrow  he'll  marry, 
Yes,  by  the  Lord  Harry, 
He's  go-ing — to-many — to-mor-row ! 
And  that's  a  thing  to  doodle — doodle-doo." 

"There,"  said  the  Idiot,  after  a  pause. 
"How  is  that  for  a  first  act?" 

"It's  about  as  lucid  as  most  of  them."  said 
the  Poet,  "but,  after  all,  you  have  got  a  story 
there,  and  you  said  you  didn't  need  one." 

"I  said  you  didn't  need  one  to  start  with," 
corrected  the  Idiot.  "And  I've  proved  it. 
60 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

I  didn't  have  that  story  in  mind  when  I 
started.  That's  where  the  easiness  of  the 
thing  comes  in.  Why,  I  didn't  even  have 
to  think  of  a  name  for  the  heroine.  The  in 
spiration  for  that  popped  right  out  of  Mr. 
Brief's  mouth  as  smoothly  as  though  the 
name  Drivelina  had  been  written  on  his  heart 
for  centuries.  Then  the  title — 'The  Isle  of 
Piccolo' — that's  a  dandy,  and  I  give  you 
my  word  of  honor,  I'd  never  even  thought 
of  a  title  for  the  opera  until  that  revealed 
itself  like  a  flash  from  the  blue;  and  as  for 
the  coon  song,  'My  Baboon  Baby/  there's 
a  chance  there  for  a  Zanzibar  act  that  will 
simply  make  Richard  Wagner  and  Reginald 
de  Koven  writhe  with  jealousy.  Can't  you 
imagine  the  lilt  of  it : 

"  My  bab-boon — ba-habee, 
My  bab-boon — ba-habee — 
I  love  you  dee-her-lee 
Yes  dee-hee-hee-er-lee. 
My  baboon — ba-ha-bee, 
My  baboon — ba-ha-bee, 

My    baboon — ba-hay-hay-hay-hay-hay-hay-bee- 
bee." 

61 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

"And  all  those  pink  satin  monkeys  bump 
ing  their  cocoanut-shells  together  in  the 
green  moonlight— 

"Well,  after  the  first  act,  what?"  asked 
the  Bibliomaniac. 

"The  usual  intermission,"  said  the  Idiot. 
"You  don't  have  to  write  that.  The  au 
dience  generally  knows  what  to  do." 

"But  your  second  act?"  asked  the  Poet. 

"Oh,  come  off,"  said  the  Idiot,  rising. 
"We  were  to  do  this  thing  in  collaboration. 
So  far,  I've  done  the  whole  blooming  busi 
ness.  I'll  leave  the  second  act  to  you. 
When  you  collaborate,  Mr.  Poet,  you've  got 
to  do  a  little  colabbing  on  your  own  ac 
count.  What  did  you  think  you  were  to 
do — collect  the  royalties?" 

"I'm  told,"  said  the  Lawyer,  "that  that 
is  sometimes  the  hardest  thing  to  do  in  a 
comic  opera." 

"Well,  I'll  be  self-sacrificing,"  said  the 
Idiot,  "and  bear  my  full  share  of  it." 

"It  seems  to  me,"  said  the  Bibliomaniac, 
"that  that  opera  produced  in  the  right  place 
might  stand  a  chance  of  a  run." 
62 


'THE  GENIAL  IDIOT 

" Thank  you,"  said  the  Idiot.  "After  all, 
Mr.  Bib,  you  are  a  man  of  some  penetration. 
How  long  a  run?" 

"One  consecutive  night,"  said  the  Biblio 
maniac. 

"Ah — and  where?"  demanded  the  Idiot, 
with  a  smile. 

"At  Bloomingdale,"  answered  the  Biblio 
maniac,  severely. 

"That's  a  very  good  idea,"  said  the  Idiot. 
"When  you  go  back  there,  Mr.  Bib,  I  wish 
you'd  suggest  it  to  the  superintendent." 


VI 

HE   DISCUSSES   FAME 

"1ITR.  POET/'  said  the  Idiot,  the  other 
IfJ.  morning  as  his  friend,  the  Rhyrnster, 
took  his  place  beside  him  at  the  breakfast - 
table,  "tell  me:  How  long  have  you  been 
writing  poetry?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know/'  said  the  Poet,  mod 
estly.  "I  don't  know  that  I've  ever  written 
any.  I've  turned  out  a  lot  of  rhymes  in 
my  day,  and  have  managed  to  make  a  fair 
living  with  them,  but  poetry  is  a  different 
thing.  The  divine  afflatus  doesn't  come  to 
every  one,  you  know;  and  I  doubt  if  any 
body  will  be  able  to  say  whether  my  work 
has  shown  an  occasional  touch  of  inspira 
tion,  or  not  until  I  have  been  dead  fifty  or 
a  hundred  years." 

64 


THE   GENIAL    IDIOT 

"Tut!"  exclaimed  the  Idiot.  " That's  all 
nonsense.  I  am  able  to  say  now  whether  or 
not  your  work  shows  the  occasional  touch 
of  inspiration.  It  does.  In  fact,  it  shows 
more  than  that.  It  shows  a  semi-occasional 
touch  of  inspiration.  How  long  have  you 
been  in  the  business?" 

"Eighteen  years,"  sighed  the  Poet.  "I 
began  when  I  was  twelve  with  a  limerick. 
As  I  remember  the  thing,  it  went  like  this: 

"There  was  a  young  man  of  Cohasset 
Turned  on  the  red-hot  water-faucet. 

When  asked:  'Is  it  hot?' 

He  answered,  'Well,  thot 
Is  a  pretty  mild  way  for  to  class  it.' " 

"Good!"  said  the  Idiot.  "That  wasn't  a 
bad  beginning  for  a  boy  of  twelve." 

"So  my  family  thought,"  said  the  Poet. 
"  My  mother  sent  it  to  the  Under  the  Evening 
Lamp  Department  of  our  town  paper,  and 
three  weeks  later  I  was  launched.  I've  had 
the  caccethes  scribendi  ever  since — but,  alas! 
I  got  more  fame  in  that  brief  hour  of  success 
than  I  have  ever  been  able  to  win  since.  It 
65 


THE   GENIAL    IDIOT 

is  a  mighty  hard  job,  Mr.  Idiot,  making  a 
name  for  yourself  these  days." 

"That's  the  point  I  was  getting  at,"  said 
the  Idiot,  "and  I  wanted  to  have  a  talk  with 
you  on  the  subject.  I've  read  a  lot  of  your 
stuff  in  the  past  eight  or  ten  years,  and,  in 
my  humble  judgment,  it  is  better  than  any 
of  that  rhymed  nonsense  of  Henry  Winter- 
green  Boggs,  whose  name  appears  in  the 
newspapers  every  day  in  the  year;  of  Susan 
Aldershot  Spinks,  whose  portrait  is  almost 
as  common  an  occurrence  in  the  papers  as 
that  of  Lydia  Squinkham;  of  Circumflex 
Jones,  the  eminent  sweet-singer  of  Arizona; 
or  of  Henderson  Hartley  MacFadd,  the  Ca 
nadian  Browning,  of  whom  the  world  is 
constantly  hearing  so  much.  I  have  won 
dered  if  you  were  going  about  it  in  the 
right  way.  What  is  your  plan  for  winning 
fame?" 

"Oh,  I  keep  plodding  away,  doing  the 
best  I  can  all  the  while,"  said  the  Poet.  "If 
there's  any  good  in  my  stuff,  or  any  stuff 
in  my  goods,  I'll  get  my  reward  some 
day." 

66 


THE   GENIAL    IDIOT 

"Fifty  or  a  hundred  years  after  you're 
dead,  eh?"  said  the  Idiot. 

"Yes,"  smiled  the  Poet. 

"Well  —  your  board-bills  won't  be  high 
then,  anyhow,"  said  the  Idiot.  "That's 
one  satisfaction,  I  presume.  They  tell  me 
Homer  hasn't  eaten  a  thing  for  over  twenty 
centuries.  Seems  to  me,  though,  that  if  I 
were  a  poet  I'd  go  in  for  a  little  fame  while 
I  was  alive.  It's  all  very  nice  to  work  the 
skin  off  your  knuckles,  and  to  twist  your 
gray  matter  inside  out  until  it  crocks  and 
fades,  so  that  your  great-grandchildren  can 
swell  around  the  country  sporting  a  name 
that  has  become  a  household  word,  but  I'm 
blessed  if  I  care  for  that  sort  of  thing.  I 
don't  believe  in  storing  up  caramels  for  some 
twenty  -  first  -  century  baby  that  bears  my 
name  to  cut  his  teeth  on,  when  I  have  a 
sweet  tooth  of  my  own  that  is  pining  away 
for  the  lack  of  nourishment;  and,  if  I  were 
you,  I'd  go  in  for  the  new  method.  What 
if  Browning  and  Tennyson  and  Longfellow 
and  Poe  did  have  to  labor  for  years  to  win 
the  laurel  crown,  that's  no  reason  why  you 
67 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

should  do  it.  You  might  just  as  well  reason 
that  because  your  forefathers  went  from 
one  city  to  another  in  a  stage-coach  you 
should  eschew  railways." 

"I  quite  agree  with  you,"  replied  the 
Poet.  "But  in  literature  there  is  no  royal 
road  to  fame  that  I  know  of." 

"  What !"  cried  the  Idiot.  "  No  royal  road 
to  fame  in  letters!  Why,  where  have  you 
been  living  all  these  years,  Mr.  Poet?  This 
is  the  age  of  the  Get  Fame-Quick  Scheme. 
You  can  make  a  reputation  in  five  minutes, 
if  you  only  know  the  ropes.  I  know  of  at 
least  two  department  stores  where  you  can 
go  and  buy  all  you  want  of  it,  and  in  all  its 
grades — from  notoriety  down  to  the  straight 
goods." 

"Fame?  At  a  department  store!"  put  in 
Mr.  Whitechoker,  incredulously. 

"Certainly,"  said  the  Idiot.  "Ready- 
made  laurels  on  demand.  Why  not?  It's 
the  easiest  thing  in  the  world.  Fact  is, 
between  you  and  me,  I  am  considering  a 
plan  now  for  the  promoting  of  a  corporation 
to  be  called  the  United  States  Fame  Com- 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

pany,  Limited,  the  main  purpose  of  which 
shall  be  to  earn  money  for  its  stockholders 
by  making  its  customers  famous  at  so  much 
per  head.  It  won't  make  any  difference 
whether  the  customer  wishes  to  be  famous 
as  an  actor,  a  novelist,  or  a  poet,  or  any 
other  old  thing.  We'll  turn  the  trick  for 
him,  and  guarantee  him  more  than  a  taste 
of  immortality." 

"You  may  put  me  down  for  four  dollars' 
worth  of  notoriety,"  said  Mr.  Brief,  with  a 
laugh. 

"All  right,"  said  the  Idiot,  dryly.  "There's 
a  lot  in  your  profession  who  like  the  cheap 
sort.  But  I  warn  you  in  advance  that  if 
you  go  in  for  cheap  notoriety,  you'll  find  it 
a  pretty  hard  job  getting  anybody  to  sell 
you  any  eighteen-karat  distinction  later." 

"Well,"  said  the  Poet,  "I  don't  know  that 
I  can  promise  to  be  one  of  your  customers 
until  I  know  something  of  the  quality  of  the 
fame  you  have  to  sell.  Tell  me  of  somebody 
you've  made  a  name  for,  and  I'll  take  the 
matter  into  consideration  if  I  like  the  style 
of  laurel  you  have  placed  on  his  brow." 
69 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

"Lean  over  here  and  I'll  whisper,"  said 
the  Idiot.  "I  don't  mind  telling  you,  but  I 
don't  believe  in  giving  away  the  secrets  of 
the  trade  to  the  rest  of  these  gentlemen." 

The  Poet  did  as  he  was  bade,  and  the 
Idiot  whispered  a  certain  great  name  in  his 
ear. 

"No!"  cried  the  Poet,  incredulously. 

"Yes,  sir.  Fact!"  said  the  Idiot.  "He 
was  made  famous  in  a  night.  The  first 
thing  we  did  was  to  get  him  to  elongate  his 
signature.  He  was  writing  as — P.  K.  Dubbins 
we'll  call  him,  for  the  sake  of  the  argument. 
Now  a  name  like  that  couldn't  be  made 
great  under  any  circumstances  whatsoever, 
so  we  made  him  write  it  out  in  full:  Philander 
Kenil worth  Dubbins — regular  broadside,  you 
see.  P.  K.  Dubbins  was  a  pop-shot,  but 
Philander  Kenilworth  Dubbins  spreads  out 
like  a  dum-dum  bullet  or  hits  you  like  a 
blast  from  a  Catling  gun.  Printed,  it  takes 
up  a  whole  line  of  a  newspaper  column;  put 
at  the  top  of  an  advertisement,  it  strikes  the 
eye  with  the  convincing  force  of  a  circus- 
poster.  You  can't  help  seeing  it,  and  it 
70 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

makes,  when  spoken,  a  mouthful  that  is 
nothing  short  of  impressive  and  sonorous." 

"Still/'  suggested  Mr.  Brief,  with  a  wink 
at  the  Bibliomaniac,  "you  have  only  multi 
plied  your  difficulties  by  three.  If  it  was 
hard  for  your  friend  Dubbins  to  make  one 
name  famous,  I  can't  see  that  he  improves 
matters  by  trying  to  make  three  names 
famous." 

"On  the  modern  business  principle  that  to 
accomplish  anything  you  must  work  on  a 
large  scale,"  said  the  Idiot.  "Philander 
Kenilworth  Dubbins  was  a  better  proposi 
tion  than  P.  K.  Dubbins.  The  difference 
between  them  in  the  mere  matter  of  poten 
tialities  is  the  difference  between  a  corner 
grocery  and  a  department  store,  or  a  kite 
with  a  tail  and  one  without.  Well,  having 
created  the  name,  the  next  thing  to  do  was 
to  exploit  it,  and  we  advertised  Dubbins 
for  all  there  was  in  him.  We  got  Mr.  William 
Jones  Brickbat,  the  eminent  novelist,  to  say 
that  he  had  read  Dubbins 's  poems,  and  had 
not  yet  died;  we  got  Edward  Pinkham,  the 
author  of  "The  Man  with  the  Watering-pot/' 
71 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

to  send  us  a  type-written  letter,  saying  that 
Dubbins  was  a  coming  man,  and  that  his 
latest  book,  Howls  from  Helicon,  contained 
many  inspired  lines.  But,  best  of  all,  we 
prevailed  upon  the  manufacturers  of  cellu 
loid  soap  to  print  a  testimonial  from  Dub 
bins  himself,  saying  that  there  was  no  other 
soap  like  it  in  the  market.  That  brought 
his  name  prominently  before  every  magazine- 
reader  in  the  country,  because  the  celluloid- 
soap  people  are  among  the  biggest  advertis 
ers  of  the  day,  and  everywhere  that  soap  ad 
went,  why,  Dubbins 's  testimonial  went  also, 
as  faithfully  as  Mary's  Little  Lamb.  After 
that  we  paid  a  shirt-making  concern  down 
town  to  put  out  a  new  collar  called  "The 
Helicon/'  which  they  advertised  widely  with 
a  picture  of  Dubbins 's  head  sticking  up  out 
of  the  middle  of  it;  and,  finally,  as  a  crown 
ing  achievement,  we  leased  Dubbins  for  a 
year  to  a  five-cent  cigar  company,  who  have 
placarded  the  fences,  barns,  and  chicken- 
coops  from  Maine  to  California  with  the 
name  of  Dubbins— ' Flora  Dubbins:  The  Best 
Five-Cent  Smoke  in  the  Market.'" 
72 


THE   GENIAL    IDIOT 

"  And  thus  you  made  the  name  of  Dubbins 
famous  in  letters!"  sneered  the  Doctor. 

"That  was  only  the  preliminary  canter/' 
replied  the  Idiot.  "So  far,  Dubbins }s  great 
ness  was  confined  to  fences,  barns,  chicken- 
coops,  and  the  advertising  columns  of  the 
magazines.  The  next  thing  was  to  get  him 
written  up  in  the  newspapers.  That  sort 
of  thing  can't  be  bought,  but  you  can  acquire 
it  by  subtlety.  Plan  one  was  to  make  an 
after-dinner  speaker  out  of  Dubbins.  This 
was  easy.  There  are  a  million  public  dinners 
every  year,  but  a  limited  supply  of  good 
speakers;  so,  with  a  little  effort,  we  got  Dub 
bins  on  five  toast-cards,  hired  a  humorist 
out  in  Wisconsin  to  write  five  breezy  speeches 
for  him,  Dubbins  committed  them  to  mem 
ory,  and  they  went  off  like  hot-cakes.  Morn 
ing  papers  would  come  out  with  Dubbins 's 
picture  printed  in  between  that  of  Bishop 
Potter  and  a  member  of  the  cabinet,  who 
also  spoke.  Copies  of  Dubbins's  speeches 
were  handed  to  the  reporters  before  the 
dinner  began,  so  that  it  didn't  make  any 
difference  whether  Dubbins  spoke  them  or 
73 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

not — the  papers  had  'em  next  morning  just 
the  same,  and  inside  of  six  months  you 
couldn't  read  an  account  of  any  pub 
lic  banquet  without  running  up  against 
the  name  of  Philander  Kenilworth  Dub 
bins." 

"Well,  I  declare!"  ejaculated  Mr.  White- 
choker.  "What  a  strange  affair!*' 

"Then  we  got  Dubbins's  publishers  to 
take  a  hand,"  said  the  Idiot.  "They  issued 
a  monthly  budget  of  gossip  concerning  their 
authors,  which  newspaper  editors  all  over 
quoted  in  their  interesting  items  of  the  day. 
From  these  paragraphs  the  public  learned 
that  Dubbins  wrote  between  4  A.M.  and 
breakfast-time;  that  Dubbins  never  penned 
a  line  without  having  a  tame  rabbit,  named 
Romola,  sitting  alongside  of  his  ink-pot; 
that  Dubbins  got  his  ideas  for  his  wonderful 
poem,  'The  Mystery  of  Life,'  from  hearing  a 
canary  inadvertently  whistle  a  bar  of  '  Hia 
watha;'  that  Dubbins  was  the  best-dressed 
author  in  the  State  of  New  York,  affecting 
green  plaid  waistcoats,  pink  shirts,  and  red 
neckties;  witty  things  that  Dubbins's  boy 
74 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

had  said  about  Dubbins 's  work  to  Dubbins 
himself  were  also  spread  all  over  the  land, 
until  finally  Philander  Kenilworth  Dubbins 
became  a  select  series  of  household  words  in 
every  town,  city,  and  hamlet  in  the  United 
States.  And  there  he  is  to-day — a  great 
man,  bearing  a  great  name,  made  for  him 
by  his  friends.  Howls  from  Helicon  is  full 
of  bad  poems,  but  Dubbins  is  a  son  of  Par 
nassus  just  the  same.  Now  we  propose  to 
do  it  for  others.  For  five  dollars  down,  Mr. 
Poet,  I'll  make  you  conspicuous;  for  ten, 
I'll  make  you  notorious;  for  fifty,  I'll  make 
you  famous;  for  a  hundred,  I'll  give  you 
immortality." 

"Good!"  cried  the  Poet.  " Immortality 
for  a  hundred  dollars  is  cheap.  I'll  take 
that." 

"You  will  ?"  said  the  Idiot,  joyfully.  "  Put 
up  your  money." 

"All  right,"  laughed  the  Poet,  "111  pay 
-C.  O.  D." 

"Another  hundred  gone!"  moaned  the 
Idiot,  as  the  party  broke  up  and  its  members 
went  there  several  ways.  "  I  think  its  abom- 
6  75 


THE   GENIAL    IDIOT 

inable  that  this  commercial  spirit  of  the  age 
should  have  affected  even  you  poets.  You 
ought  to  have  gone  into  business,  old  man, 
and  left  the  Muses  alone.  You've  got  too 
good  a  head  for  poetry." 


vn 

ON    THE    DECADENCE    OF    APRIL-FOOI/S-DAY 

"T~  AM  sorry  to  observe,"  said  the  Idiot, 
J_  as  he  sat  down  at  the  breakfast  -  table 
yesterday  morning,  "that  the  good  old  cus 
toms  of  my  youthful  days  are  dying  out 
by  slow  degrees,  and  the  celebrations  that 
once  filled  my  childish  soul  with  glee  are  no 
longer  a  part  of  the  pleasures  of  the  young. 
Actually,  Mr.  Whitechoker,  I  got  through 
the  whole  day  yesterday  without  sitting  on 
a  single  pin  or  smashing  my  toes  against  a 
brickbat  hid  beneath  a  hat.  What  on 
earth  can  be  coming  over  the  boys  of  the 
land  that  they  no  longer  avail  themselves 
of  the  privileges  of  the  fool-tide?" 

"  Fool-tide's  good,"  said  Mr.  Brief.  "  Where 
did  you  get  that?" 

77 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

"Oh,  I  pried  it  out  of  my  gray-matter  'way 
back  in  the  last  century,"  said  the  Idiot. 
"  It  grew  out  of  a  simple  little  prank  I  played 
one  April  ist  upon  an  uncle  of  mine.  I 
bored  a  hole  in  the  middle  of  a  pine  log  and 
filled  it  with  powder.  We  had  it  that  night 
on  the  hearth,  and  a  moment  later  there 
wasn't  any  hearth.  In  talking  the  matter 
over  later  with  my  father  and  mother  and 
the  old  gentleman,  in  order  to  turn  the  dis 
cussion  into  more  genial  channels,  I  asked 
why,  if  the  Yule-log  was  appropriate  for  the 
Yule-tide,  the  Fool-log  wasn't  appropriate 
for  the  Fool-tide." 

"I  hope  you  got  the  answer  you  deserved," 
said  the  Bibliomaniac. 

"I  did,"  sighed  the  Idiot.  "I  got  all 
there  was  coming  to  me — slippers,  trunk- 
strap,  hair-brush,  and  plain  hand;  but  it 
was  worth  it.  All  the  glories  of  Vesuvius, 
Etna,  Popocatepetl,  and  Pel6e  rolled  into 
one  could  never  thereafter  induce  in  me 
anything  approaching  that  joyous  sensation 
that  I  derived  from  the  spectacle  of  that 
fool-log  and  that  happy  hearth  soaring  up 
78 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

through  the  chimney  together,  hand  in 
hand,  and  taking  with  them  such  portions 
of  the  flues,  andirons,  and  other  articles  of 
fireplace  vertu  as  cared  to  join  them  in  their 
upward  flight." 

"You  must  have  been  a  holy  terror  as  a 
boy,"  said  the  Doctor.  "I  should  not  have 
cared  to  live  on  your  block." 

"Oh,  I  wasn't  so  bad,"  observed  the 
Idiot.  "I  never  was  vicious  or  malicious 
in  what  I  did.  If  I  poured  vitriol  into  the 
coffee-pot  at  breakfast  my  father  and  mother 
knew  that  I  didn't  do  it  to  give  pain  to  any 
body.  If  I  hid  under  my  maiden  aunt's 
bed  and  barked  like  a  bull-dog  after  she  had 
retired,  dear  old  Tabitha  knew  that  it  was 
all  done  in  a  spirit  of  pleasantry.  When  I 
glued  my  grandfather's  new  teeth  together 
with  stratina,  that  splendid  old  man  was 
perfectly  aware  that  I  had  no  grudge  I  was 
trying  thus  to  repay;  and  certainly  the 
French  teacher  at  school,  when  he  sat  down 
on  an  iron  bear-trap  I  had  set  for  him  in  his 
chair,  never  entertained  the  notion  that  there 
was  the  slightest  animosity  in  my  act." 
79 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

"By  jingo!"  cried  the  Bibliomaniac.  "I'd 
have  spanked  you  good  and  hard  if  I'd  been 
your  mother." 

"Don't  you  fret — she  did  it;  that  is, 
she  did  up  to  the  time  I  was  ten  years  old, 
and  then  she  had  such  a  shock  she  gave  up 
corporeal  punishment  altogether."  said  the 
Idiot. 

"Had  a  shock,  eh?"  smiled  the  Lawyer. 
"Nearly  killed  you,  I  suppose,  giving  you 
what  you  deserved?" 

"No,"  said  the  Idiot.  "Spanked  me  with 
a  hair-brush  without  having  removed  a 
couple  of  Excelsior  torpedoes  from  my 
pistol-pocket.  On  the  second  whack  I  ap 
peared  to  explode.  Poor  woman!  She 
didn't  know  I  was  loaded,  and  from  that 
time  on  she  was  as  afraid  of  me  as  most 
other  women  are  of  a  gun." 

"I'd  have  turned  you  over  to  your  father," 
said  the  Bibliomaniac,  indignantly. 

"She    did,"    said    the    Idiot,    sadly.     "I 

never  used  explosives  again.     In  later  years 

I  took  up  the  milder  April-fool  diversions, 

such  as  filling  the  mucilage-pot  with  ink  and 

80 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

the  ink-pot  with  mucilage;  mixing  the  gran 
ulated  sugar  with  white  sand;  putting  pow 
dered  brick  into  the.  red-pepper  pot;  insert 
ing  kerosene-oil  into  the  sweet-oil  bottle,  and 
little  things  like  that.  I  squandered  a  whole 
dollar  one  April-fool's-day  sending  telegrams 
to  my  uncles  and  aunts,  telling  them  to  come 
and  dine  with  us  that  night;  and  they  all 
came,  too,  although  my  father  and  mother 
were  dining  out  that  evening,  and — oh,  dear, 
April-fooPs-day  is  not  what  it  used  to  be. 
The  boys  and  girls  of  the  present  generation 
are  little  old  men  and  women  with  no  pranks 
left  in  them.  Why,  I  don't  believe  that 
nine  out  of  ten  boys,  who  are  about  to  enter 
college  this  spring,  could  rig  up  a  successful 
tick-tack  on  a  window  to  save  their  lives;  and 
the  joy  of  carrying  a  piece  of  twine  across 
the  sidewalk  from  a  front  -  door  knob  to  a 
lamp-post,  hat-high,  and  then  sitting  back 
in  the  seclusion  of  a  convenient  area  and 
watching  the  plug-hats  of  the  people  go 
down  before  it — that  is  a  joy  that  seems  to 
be  wholly  untasted  of  the  present  genera 
tion  of  infantile  dignitaries  that  we  call  the 
81 


THE   GENIAL    IDIOT 

youth  of  the  land.  What  is  the  matter 
with  'em,  do  you  suppose?" 

"I  guess  we're  getting  civilized,"  said  Mr. 
Brief.  "That  seems  to  me  to  be  the  most 
likely  explanation  of  this  deplorable  situa 
tion,  as  you  appear  to  think  it.  For  my 
part,  I'm  glad  if  what  you  say  is  true.  Of 
all  rotten  things  in  the  world  the  practical 
jokes  of  April-fool's-day  bear  away  the  palm. 
There  was  a  time,  ten  years  ago,  when  I 
hardly  dared  eat  anything  on  the  first  of 
April.  I  was  afraid  to  find  my  coffee  made 
of  ink,  my  muffin  stuffed  with  cotton,  cod- 
liver  oil  in  my  salad-dressing,  and  mayon 
naise  in  my  cream-puffs.  Such  tricks  are 
the  tricks  of  barbarians,  and  I  shall  rejoice 
when  April  1st  as  a  day  of  special  privilege 
for  idiots  and  savages  has  been  removed 
from  the  calendar." 

"I  am  afraid,"  said  Mr.  Whitechoker, 
"that  I,  too,  must  join  the  ranks  of  those 
who  rejoice  if  the  old-time  customs  of  the 
day  are  now  honored  more  in  the  breach 
than  in  the  observance.  Ever  since  that 
unhappy  Sunday  morning  some  years  ago 
82 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

when  somebody  substituted  a  breakfast  bill- 
of-fare  for  the  card  containing  the  notes  for 
my  sermon,  I  have  mistrusted  the  humor  of 
the  April-fool  joke.  Instead  of  my  text,  as  I 
glanced  at  what  I  supposed  was  my  note- 
card,  my  eyes  fell  upon  the  statement  that 
fruit  taken  from  the  table  would  be  charged 
for;  instead  of  my  firstly,  secondly,  thirdly, 
and  fourthly,  my  eyes  were  confronted  by 
Fish,  Eggs,  Hot  Bread,  and  To  Order.  And, 
finally,  in  place  of  the  key-line  of  my  perora 
tion,  what  should  obtrude  itself  upon  my 
vision  but  that  coarse  and  vulgar  legend: 
Corkage,  one  dollar.  I  never  found  out  who 
did  it,  and,  as  a  Christian  man,  I  hope  I 
never  shall,  for  I  should  much  deprecate  the 
spirit  of  animosity  with  which  I  should  in 
evitably  regard  the  person  who  had  so 
offended." 

"I'll  bet  you  preached  a  bully  good  ser 
mon,  allee  samee,"  said  the  Idiot. 

"Well,"    smiled   Mr.    Whitechoker,    "the 

congregation  did  seem  to  think  that  it  held 

more  fire  than  usual;  but  I  can  assure  you, 

my  young  friend,  it  was  more  the  fire  of 

83 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

external  wrath  than  of  an  inward  spiritual 
grace." 

"Well,"  said  the  Bibliomaniac,  "we  ought 
to  be  thankful  the  old  tricks  are  going  out. 
As  Mr.  Brief  suggests,  we  are  beginning  to 
be  civilized — " 

"I  don't  think  it's  civilization,"  said  the 
Idiot.  "I  think  the  kids  are  just  discour 
aged,  that's  all.  They're  clever,  these  young 
sters,  but  when  it  comes  to  putting  up  games, 
they're  not  in  it  with  their  far  more  foxy 
fathers.  What's  the  use  of  playing  April- 
fool  jokes  on  your  daddy,  when  your  daddy 
is  playing  April-fool  jokes  on  the  public  all 
the  year  round?  That's  the  way  they  rea 
son.  No  son  of  George  W.  Midas,  the  finan 
cier,  is  going  to  get  any  satisfaction  out  of 
handing  his  father  a  loaded  cigar,  when  he 
knows  that  the  old  man  is  handling  that  sort 
of  thing  every  day  in  his  business  as  a  pro 
moter  of  the  United  States  Hot  Air  Company. 
What  fun  is  there  in  giving  your  sister  a 
caramel  filled  with  tabasco-sauce  when  you 
can  watch  your  father  selling  eleven  dollars' 
worth  of  Amalgamated  Licorice  stock  to 
84 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

the  dear  public  for  forty-seven  fifty?  The 
gum-drop  filled  with  cotton  loses  its  charm 
when  you  contrast  it  with  Consolidated 
Radium  containing  one  part  of  radium  and 
ninety-nine  parts  of  water.  Who  cares  to 
hide  a  clay  brick  under  a  hat  for  somebody 
to  kick,  when  there  are  concerns  in  palatial 
offices  all  over  town  selling  gold  bricks  to  a 
public  that  doesn't  seem  to  have  any  kick 
left  in  it?  I  tell  you  it  has  discouraged  the 
kid  to  see  to  what  scientific  heights  the  April- 
fool  industry  has  been  developed,  and  as 
a  result  he  has  abandoned  the  field.  He 
knows  he  can't  compete." 

"  That's  all  right  as  an  explanation  of  the 
youngster  whose  parent  is  engaged  in  that 
sort  of  business,"  said  the  Doctor.  "But 
there  are  others." 

"True,"  said  the  Idiot.  "The  others 
stay  out  of  it  out  of  sheer  pity.  When  they 
are  tempted  to  sew  up  the  legs  of  their  dad 
dy's  trousers  in  order  to  fitly  celebrate  the 
day,  or  to  fill  his  collar-box  with  collars  five 
sizes  too  small  for  him,  they  say,  'No.  Let 
us  refrain.  The  governor  has  had  trouble 
85 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

enough  with  his  International  Yukon  An 
ticipated  Brass  shares  this  year.  He's  had 
all  the  fooling  he  can  stand.  We  will  give 
the  old  gentleman  a  rest!1  Fact  is,  come  to 
look  at  it,  the  decadence  of  April  1st  as  a 
day  of  foolery  for  the  young  is  no  mystery, 
after  all.  The  youngsters  are  not  more 
civilized  than  we  used  to  be,  but  they  have 
had  the  intelligence  to  perceive  the  exact 
truth  of  the  situation." 

"Which  is?"  asked  Mr.  Brief. 

"That  the  ancient  art  of  practical  joking 
has  become  a  business.  April-fooPs-day  has 
been  incorporated  by  the  leading  financiers 
of  the  age,  and  is  doing  a  profitable  trade  all 
over  the  world  all  the  year  round.  Private 
enterprise  is  simply  unable  to  compete." 

"I  am  rather  surprised,  nevertheless," 
said  Mr.  Brief,  "that  you  yourself  have 
abandoned  the  field.  You  are  just  the  sort 
of  person  who  would  keep  on  in  that  kind 
of  thing,  despite  the  discouragements." 

"Oh,  I  haven't  abandoned  the  field,"  said 
the  Idiot.  "I  did  play  an  April-fool  joke 
last  Friday." 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

"What  was  that?"  asked  Mr.  Whitechoker, 
interested. 

"I  told  Mrs.  Pedagog  that  I  would  pay 
my  bill  to-morrow/'  replied  the  Idiot,  as  he 
rose  from  the  table  and  left  the  room. 


VIII 

SPRING   AND  ITS   POETRY 

WELL,  Mr.  Idiot/'  said  Mrs.  Pedagog, 
genially,  as  the   Idiot   entered   the 
breakfast-room,  "what  can  I  do  for  you  this 
fine  spring   morning?    Will   you   have   tea 
or  coffee  ?" 

"I  think  I'd  like  a  cup  of  boiled  iron,  with 
two  lumps  of  quinine  and  a  spoonful  of  con 
densed  nerve-milk  in  it,"  replied  the  Idiot, 
wearily.  "Somehow  or  other  I  have  managed 
to  mislay  my  spine  this  morning.  Ethereal 
mildness  has  taken  the  place  of  my  backbone. " 

"Those  tired  feelings,  eh?"  said  Mr.  Brief. 

"Yeppy,"  replied  the  Idiot.  "Regular 
thing  with  me.  Every  year  along  about 
the  middle  of  April  I  have  to  fasten  a  poker 
on  my  back  with  straps,  in  order  to  stand 


88 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

up  straight;  and  as  for  my  knees — well,  I 
never  know  where  they  are  in  the  merry, 
merry  spring-time.  I'm  quite  sure  that  if 
I  didn't  wear  brass  caps  on  them  my  legs 
would  bend  backward.  I  wonder  if  this 
neighborhood  is  malarious." 

"Not  in  the  slightest  degree,"  observed 
the  Doctor.  "This  is  the  healthiest  neigh 
borhood  in  town.  The  trouble  with  you  is 
that  you  have  a  swampy  rnind,  and  it  is  the 
miasmatic  oozings  of  your  intellect  that  re 
duce  you  to  the  condition  of  physical  flabbi- 
ness  of  which  you  complain.  You  might 
swallow  the  United  States  Steel  Trust,  arid 
it  wouldn't  help  you  a  bit,  and  ten  thousand 
bottles  of  nerve-milk,  or  any  other  tonic 
known  to  science,  would  be  powerless  to 
reach  the  seat  of  your  disorder.  What  you 
need  to  stiffen  you  up  is  a  pair  of  those  ar 
mored  trousers  the  Crusaders  used  to  wear 
in  the  days  of  chivalry,  to  bolster  up  your  legs, 
and  a  strait-jacket  to  keep  your  back  up." 

"Thank  you,  kindly,"  said  the  Idiot.     "If 
you'll  give  me  a  prescription,  which  I  can 
have  made  up  at  your  tailor's,  I'll  have  it 
89 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

filled,  unless  you'll  add  to  my  ever-increasing 
obligation  to  you  by  lending  me  your  own 
strait-jacket.  I  promise  to  keep  it  straight 
and  to  return  it  the  moment  you  feel  one  of 
your  fits  coming  on." 

The  Doctor's  response  was  merely  a  scorn 
ful  gesture,  and  the  Idiot  went  on: 

"It's  always  seemed  a  very  queer  thing  to 
me  that  this  season  of  the  year  should  be  so 
popular  with  everybody/'  he  said.  "To  me 
it's  the  mushiest  of  times.  Mushy  bones; 
mushy  poetry;  mush  for  breakfast,  fried, 
stewed,  and  boiled.  The  roads  are  mushy; 
lovers  thaw  out  and  get  mushier  than  ever. 

"  In  the  spring  the  blasts  of  winter  all  are  stilled 

in  solemn  hush. 
In  the  spring  the  young  man's  fancy  lightly 

turns  to  thoughts  of  mush. 
In  the  spring — " 

"You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself 
to  trifle  with  so  beautiful  a  poem,"  inter 
rupted  the  Bibliomaniac,  indignantly. 

"Who's  trifling  with  a  beautiful  poem?" 
demanded  the  Idiot. 

90 


THE   GENIAL    IDIOT 

"  You  are — '  Locksley  Hair — and  you  know 
it,"  retorted  the  Bibliomaniac. 

"Locksley  nothing/'  said  the  Idiot.  "What 
I  was  reciting  is  not  from  'Locksley  Hall'  at 
all.  It's  a  little  thing  of  my  own  that  I 
wrote  six  years  ago  called  'Spring  Unsprung.' 
It  may  not  contain  much  delicate  sentiment, 
but  it's  got  more  solid  information  in  it  of  a 
valuable  kind  than  you'll  find  in  ten  'Locks- 
ley  Halls '  or  a  dozen  Etiquette  Columns  in 
the  Lady's  Away  From  Rome  Magazine.  It 
has  saved  a  lot  of  people  from  pneumonia 
and  other  disorders  of  early  spring,  I  am 
quite  certain,  and  the  only  person  I  ever 
heard  criticise  it  unfavorably  was  a  doctor 
I  know  who  said  it  spoiled  his  business." 

"I  should  admire  to  hear  it,"  said  the 
Poet.  "Can't  you  let  us  have  it?" 

"Certainly,"  replied  the  Idiot.  "It  goes 
on  like  this: 


"  In  the  spring  I'll  take  you  driving,  take  you 

driving,  Maudy  dear, 

But  I  beg  of  you  be  careful  at  this  season  of 
the  year. 
7  91 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

It  is  true  the  birds  are  singing,  singing  sweetly 

all  their  notes, 

But    you'll    later    find    them    wearing    canton- 
flannel  'round  their  throats. 
It  is  true  the  lark  doth  warble,  'Spring  is  here,' 

with  bird-like  fire, 
'  All  is  warmth  and  all  is  genial,'  but  I  fear  the 

lark's  a  liar. 
All  is  warmth  for  fifteen  minutes,  that  is  true; 

but  wait  awhile, 
And  you'll  find  that  April's  weather  has  not 

ever  changed  its  style; 
And  beware  of  April's  weather,  it  is  pleasant 

for  a  spell, 
But,  like  little  Johnny's  future,  you  can't  always 

sometimes  tell. 
Often  modest  little  violets,  peeping  up  from  out 

their  beds 
In  the  balmy  morn  by  night-time  have  bad  colds 

within  their  heads; 
And  the  buttercup  and  daisy  twinkling  gayly 

on  the  lawn, 
Sing  by  night  a  different  story  from  their  car- 

ollings  at  dawn; 
And  the  blossoms  of  the  morning,  hailing  spring 

with  joyous  frenzy, 
When  the  twilight  falls  upon  them  often  droop 

with  influenzy. 

92 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

So,  dear  Maudy,  when  we're  driving,  put  your 

linen  duster  on, 
And  your  lovely  Easter  bonnet,  if  you  wish  to, 

you  may  don; 
But  be  careful  to  have  with  you  sundry  garments 

warm  and  thick: 
Woollen  gloves,  a  muff,  and  ear-tabs,  from  the 

ice-box  get  the  pick; 
There's  no  telling  what  may  happen  ere  we've 

driven  twenty  miles, 
April  flirts  with  chill  December,  and  is  full  of 

other  wiles. 
Bring  your  parasol,  O  Maudy — it   is   good  for 

tete-a-tetes; 
At  the  same  time  you  would  better  also  bring 

your  hockey  skates. 
There's  no  telling  from  the  noon-tide,  with  the 

sun  a-shining  bright, 
Just  what  kind  of  winter  weather  we'll  be  up 

against  by  night." 


"Referring  to  the  advice,"  said  Mr.  Brief, 
"that's  good.  I  don't  think  much  of  the 
poetry." 

"There  was  a  lot  more  of  it,"  said  the  Idiot, 
"but  it  escapes  me  at  the  moment.  Four 
lines  I  do  remember,  however: 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

"Pin  no  faith  to  weather  prophets  —  all  their 

prophecies  are  fakes, 
Roulette-wheels  are  plain  and  simple  to  the 

notions  April  takes. 
Keep  your  children  in  the  nursery — never  mind 

it  if  they  pout — 
And,  above  all,  do  not  let  your  furnace  take 

an  evening  out." 

"Well,"  said  the  Poet,  "if  you're  going  to 
the  poets  for  advice,  I  presume  your  rhymes 
are  all  right.  But  I  don't  think  it  is  the  mission 
of  the  poet  to  teach  people  common-sense." 

"That's  the  trouble  with  the  whole  tribe 
of  poets,"  said  the  Idiot.  "They  think  they 
are  licensed  to  do  and  say  all  sorts  of  things 
that  other  people  can't  do  and  say.  In  a 
way  I  agree  with  you  that  a  poem  shouldn't 
necessarily  be  a  treatise  on  etiquette  or  a 
sequence  of  health  hints,  but  it  should  avoid 
misleading  its  readers.  Take  that  fellow 
who  wrote 

' '  Sweet  primrose  time!    When  thou  art  here 

I  go  by  grassy  ledges 
Of  long  lane-side,  and  pasture  mead, 
And  moss-entangled  hedges.' 
94 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

That's  very  lovely,  and,  as  far  as  it  goes, 
it  is  all  right.  There's  no  harm  in  doing 
what  the  poet  so  delicately  suggests,  but  I 
think  there  should  have  been  other  stanzas 
for  the  protection  of  the  reader  lik'  this: 

"  But  have  a  care,  oh,  readers  fair, 

To  take  your  mackintoshes, 
And  on  your  feet  be  sure  to  wear 
A  pair  of  stanch  galoshes. 

"  Nor  should  you  fail  when  seeking  out 

The  primrose,  golden  yeller, 
To  have  at  hand  somewhere  about 
A  competent  umbrella. 

Thousands  of  people  are  inspired  by  lines 
like  the  original  to  go  gallivanting  all  over 
the  country  in  primrose  time,  to  return  at 
dewy  eve  with  all  the  incipient  symptoms 
of  pneumonia.  Then  there's  the  case  of 
Wordsworth.  He  was  one  of  the  loveliest 
of  the  Nature  poets,  but  he's  eternally  ad 
vising  people  to  go  out  in  the  early  spring 
and  lie  on  the  grass  somewhere,  listening  to 
cuckoos  doing  their  cooking,  watching  the 
95 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

daffodils  at  their  daily  dill,  and  hearing  the 
crocus  cuss;  and  some  sentimental  reader 
out  in  New  Jersey  thinks  that  if  Wordsworth 
could  do  that  sort  of  thing,  and  live  to  be 
eighty  years  old,  there's  no  reason  why  he 
shouldn't  do  the  same  thing.  What's  the 
result?  He  lies  on  the  grass  for  two  hours 
and  suffers  from  rheumatism  for  the  next 
ten  years." 

"Tut!"  said  the  Poet.  "I  am  surprised 
at  you.  You  can't  blame  Wordsworth  be 
cause  some  New  Jerseyman  makes  a  jackass 
of  himself." 

"In  a  way  all  writers  should  be  responsible 
for  the  effect  of  what  they  write  on  their 
readers,"  said  the  Idiot.  "When  a  poet  of 
Wordsworth's  eminence,  directly  or  indirect 
ly,  advises  people  to  go  out  and  lie  on  the 
grass  in  early  spring,  he  owes  it  to  his  public 
to  caution  them  that  in  some  localities  it  is 
not  a  good  thing  to  do.  A  rhymed  foot-note — 

"This  habit,  by-the-way,  is  good 

In  climes  south  of  the  Mersey; 
But,  I  would  have  it  understood, 
It's  risky  in  New  Jersey — 
96 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

would  fulfil  all  the  requirements  of  the  special 
individual  to  whom  I  have  referred,  and 
would  have  shown  that  the  poet  himself 
was  ever  mindful  of  the  welfare  of  his  read 
ers.  " 

The  Poet  was  apparently  unconvinced,  so 
the  Idiot  continued: 

"Mind  you,  old  man,  I  think  all  this 
poetry  is  beautiful,"  he  said;  "but  you  poets 
are  too  prone  to  confine  your  attention  to  the 
pleasant  aspects  of  the  season.  Here,  for 
instance,  is  a  poet  who  asks 

'What  are  the  dearest  treasures  of  spring?' 

and  then  goes  on  to  name  the  cheapest  as  an 
answer  to  his  question.  The  primrose,  the 
daffodil,  the  rosy  haze  that  veils  the  forest 
bare,  the  sparkle  of  the  myriad-dimpled  sea, 
a  kissing-match  between  the  sunbeams  and 
the  rain-drops,  reluctant  hopes,  the  twitter 
of  swallows  on  the  wing,  and  all  that  sort 
of  thing.  You'd  think  spring  was  an  iri 
descent  dream  of  ecstatic  things;  but  of  the 
tired  feeling  that  comes  over  you,  the  spine 
97 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

of  jelly,  the  wabbling  knee,  the  chills  and 
fever  that  come  from  sniffing  'the  scented 
breath  of  dewy  April's  eve/  the  doctor's 
bills,  and  such  like  things  are  never  men 
tioned.  It  isn't  fair.  It's  all  right  to  tell 
about  the  other  things,  but  don't  forget  the 
drawbacks.  If  I  were  writing  that  poem 
I'd  have  at  least  two  stanzas  like  this: 

"  And  other  dearest  treasures  of  spring 

Are  daily  draughts  of  withering,  blithering 

squills, 

To  cure  my  aching  bones  of  darksome  chills; 
And  at  the  door  my  loved  physician's  ring; 

"  The  tender  sneezes  of  the  early  day; 
The  sudden  drop  of  Mr.  Mercury; 
The  veering  winds  from  S.  to  N.  by  E. — 
And  hunting  flats  to  move  to  in  the  May. 

You  see,  that  makes  not  only  a  more  com 
prehensive  picture,  but  does  not  mislead 
anybody  into  the  belief  the  spring  is  all 
velvet,  which  it  isn't  by  any  means." 

"Oh,  bosh!"  cried  the  Poet,  very  much 
nettled,  as  he  rose  from  the  table.     "I  sup 
pose  if  you  had  your  way  you'd  have  all 
98 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

poetry  submitted  first  to  a  censor,  the  way 
they  do  with  plays  in  London." 

"No,  I  wouldn't  have  a  censor;  he'd 
only  increase  taxes  unnecessarily,"  said  the 
Idiot,  folding  up  his  napkin,  and  also  rising 
to  leave.  "I'd  just  let  the  Board  of  Health 
pass  on  them;  it  isn't  a  question  of  morals 
so  much  as  of  sanitation." 


IX 

ON  FLAT-HUNTING 

HA!"  cried  the  Poet,  briskly  rubbing 
.  his  hands  together,  and  drawing  a 
deep  breath  of  satisfaction,  "these  be  great 
days  for  people  who  are  fond  of  the  chase, 
who  love  the  open,  and  who  would  commune 
with  Nature  in  her  most  lovely  mood.  Just 
look  out  of  that  window,  Mr.  Idiot,  and 
drink  in  the  joyous  sunshine.  Egad!  sir, 
even  the  asphalted  pavement  and  the  brick- 
and-mortar  fagade  of  the  houses  opposite, 
bathed  in  that  golden  light,  seem  glorified." 
"Thanks,"  said  the  Idiot,  wearily,  "but 
I  guess  I  won't.  I'm  afraid  that  while  1 
was  drinking  in  those  glorified  flats  opposite 
and  digesting  the  golden-mellow  asphalt,  you 
would  fasten  that  poetic  grip  of  yours  upon 
100 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT , 


my  share  of  the  blossoming  buckwheats. 
Furthermore,  I've  been  enjoying  the  chase 
for  two  weeks  now,  and,  to  tell  you  the 
honest  truth,  I  am  long  on  it.  There  is  such 
a  thing  as  chasing  too  much,  so  if  you  don't 
mind  I'll  sublet  my  part  of  the  contract  for 
gazing  out  of  the  window  at  gilt-edged 
Nature  as  she  appears  in  the  city  to  you. 
Mary,  move  Mr.  Poet's  chair  over  to  the 
window  so  that  he  may  drink  in  the  sun 
shine  comfortably,  arid  pass  his  share  of  the 
sausages  to  me." 

"What  have  you  been  chasing,  Mr.  Idiot?" 
asked  the  Doctor.  "Birds  or  the  fast- 
flitting  dollar?" 

"Flats,"  said  the  Idiot. 

"I  didn't  know  you  Wall  Street  people 
needed  to  hunt  flats,"  said  the  Bibliomaniac. 
"I  thought  they  just  walked  into  your  offices 
and  presented  themselves  for  skinning." 

"I  don't  mean  the  flats  we  live  on,"  ex 
plained  the  Idiot.  "It's  the  flats  we  live 
in  that  I  have  been  after." 

The  landlady  looked  up  inquiringly.     Mr. 
Idiot's  announcement  sounded  ominous. 
101 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

"To  my  mind,  flat-hunting,"  the  Idiot 
continued,  "is  one  of  the  most  interesting 
branches  of  sport.  It  involves  quite  as 
much  uncertainty  as  the  pursuit  of  the 
whirring  partridge;  your  game  is  quite  as 
difficult  to  lure  as  the  speckled  trout  darting 
hither  and  yon  in  the  grassy  pool ;  it  involves 
no  shedding  of  innocent  blood,  as  in  the  case 
of  a  ride  across-country  with  a  pack  in  full 
pursuit  of  the  fox;  and  strikes  me  as  pos 
sessing  greater  dignity  than  running  forty 
miles  through  the  cabbage-patches  of  Long 
Island  in  search  of  a  bag  of  aniseseed. 
When  the  sporting  instinct  arises  in  my  soul 
and  reaches  that  full-tide  where  nothing 
short  of  action  will  hold  it  in  control,  I  never 
think  of  starting  for  Maine  to  shoot  the 
festive  moose,  nor  do  I  squander  my  limited 
resources  on  a  foggy  hunt  for  the  elusive 
canvasback  in  the  Maryland  marshes.  I 
just  go  to  the  nearest  cab-stand,  strike  a 
bargain  with  Mr.  Jehu  for  an  afternoon's 
use  of  his  hansom,  and  go  around  the  town 
hunting  flats.  It  requires  very  little  pre 
vious  preparation;  it  involves  no  prolonged 
102 


THE   GENIAL    IDIOT 

absences  from  home;  you  do  not  need  rubber 
boots  unless  you  propose  to  investigate  the 
cellars  or  intend  to  go  far  afield  into  the 
suburban  boroughs  of  this  great  city;  and 
is  in  all  ways  pleasant,  interesting,  and,  I 
may  say,  educational." 

" Educational,  eh?"  laughed  the  Biblio 
maniac.  "Some  people  have  queer  ideas  of 
what  is  educational.  I  must  say  I  fail  to 
see  anything  particularly  instructive  in  flat- 
hunting." 

"  That's  because  you  never  approached  it 
in  a  proper  spirit,"  said  the  Idiot.  "  Any 
body  who  is  at  all  interested  in  sociology, 
however,  cannot  help  but  find  instruction 
in  a  contemplation  of  how  people  are  housed. 
You  can't  get  any  idea  of  how  the  other 
halves  live  by  reading  the  society  news  in 
the  Sunday  newspapers  or  peeping  in  at  the 
second  story  of  the  tenement-houses  as  you 
go  down-town  on  the  elevated  railroads. 
You've  got  to  go  out  and  investigate  for 
yourself,  and  that's  where  flat-hunting  comes 
in  as  an  educational  diversion.  Of  course, 
all  men  are  not  interested  in  the  same  line 
103 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

of  investigation.  You,  as  a  bibliomaniac, 
prefer  to  go  hunting  rare  first  editions;  Dr. 
Pellet,  armed  to  the  teeth  with  capsules, 
lies  in  wait  for  a  pot-shot  at  some  new  kind 
of  human  ailment,  and  rejoices  as  loudly  over 
the  discovery  of  a  new  disease  as  you  do 
over  finding  a  copy  of  the  rare  first  edition 
of  the  Telephone  Book  for  1899;  another 
man  goes  to  Africa  to  investigate  the  con 
dition  of  our  gorillan  cousin  of  the  jungle; 
Lieutenant  Peary  goes  and  hides  behind  a 
snow-ball  up  North,  so  that  his  fellows  of  the 
Arctic  Exploration  Society  may  have  some 
thing  to  look  for  every  other  summer;  and 
I — I  go  hunting  for  flats.  I  don't  sneer  at 
you  and  the  others  for  liking  the  things  you 
do.  You  shouldn't  sneer  at  me  for  liking 
the  things  I  do.  It  is,  after  all,  the  diver 
sity  of  our  tastes  that  makes  our  human 
race  interesting." 

"But  the  rest  of  us  generally  bag  some 
thing,"  said  the  Lawyer.  "What  the  dick 
ens  do  you  get  beyond  sheer  physical  weari 
ness  for  your  pains?" 

"The  best  of  all  the  prizes  of  the  hunt," 
104 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

said  the  Idiot;  "the  spirit  of  content  with 
my  lot  as  a  boarder.  I've  been  through 
twenty-eight  flats  in  the  last  three  weeks, 
and  I  know  whereof  I  speak.  I  have  seen 
the  gorgeous  apartments  of  the  Redmere, 
where  you  can  get  a  Louis  Quinze  drawing- 
room,  a  Renaissance  library,  a  superb  Gre 
cian  dining-room,  and  a  cold-storage  box 
to  keep  your  high-balls  in  for  four  thousand 
dollars  per  annum." 

''Weren't  there  any  bedrooms?"  asked 
Mr.  Whitechoker. 

"Oh  yes,"  said  the  Idiot.  "Three,  au 
tomatically  ventilated  from  holes  in  the 
ceiling  leading  to  an  air-shaft,  size  six  by 
nine,  and  brilliantly  lighted  by  electricity. 
There  was  also  a  small  pigeon-hole  in  a  cor 
rugated  iron  shack  on  the  roof  for  the  cook; 
a  laundry  next  to  the  coal-bin  in  the  cellar; 
and  a  kitchen  about  four  feet  square  con 
necting  with  the  library." 

"Mercy!"  cried  Mrs.  Pedagog.  "Do  they 
expect  children  to  live  in  such  a  place  as 
that?" 

"No,"  said  the  Idiot.  "You  have  to  give 
105 


THE   GENIAL    IDIOT 

bonds  as  security  against  children  of  any 
kind  at  the  Redmere.  If  you  happen  to 
have  any,  you  are  required  by  the  terms  of 
your  lease  to  send  them  to  boarding-school; 
and  if  you  haven't  any,  the  lease  requires 
that  you  shall  promise  to  have  none  during 
your  tenancy.  The  owners  of  such  proper 
ties  have  a  lot  of  heart  about  them,  and  they 
take  good  care  to  protect  the  children  against 
the  apartments  they  put  up." 

"And  what  kind  of  people,  pray,  live  in 
such  places  as  that?"  demanded  the  Biblio 
maniac. 

"  Very  nice  people,"  said  the  Idiot.  "Peo 
ple,  for  the  most  part,  who  spend  their  win 
ters  at  Palm  Beach,  their  springs  in  London, 
their  summers  at  Newport  or  on  the  Conti 
nent,  and  their  autumns  in  the  Berkshires." 

"  I  don't  see  why  they  need  a  home  at  all 
if  that's  the  way  they  do,"  said  Mrs.  Ped- 
agog. 

"It's  very  simple,"  said  the  Idiot. 
"You've  got  to  have  an  address  to  get  your 
name  in  the  Social  Register." 

"Four  thousand   dollars  is   pretty   steep 
106 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

for  an  address,"  commented  the  Biblio 
maniac. 

"It  would  be  for  me,"  said  the  Idiot. 
"But  it  is  cheap  for  them.  Moreover,  in 
the  case  of  the  Redmere  it's  the  swellest 
address  in  town.  Three  of  the  most  im 
portant  divorces  of  the  last  social  season 
took  place  at  the  Redmere.  Social  position 
comes  high,  Mr.  Bib,  but  there  are  people 
who  must  have  it.  It  is  to  them  what  baked 
beans  are  to  the  Bostonian's  Sunday  break 
fast — a  sine  qua  non." 

"May  I  ask  whatever  induced  you  to  look 
for  a  four-thousand-dollar  apartment  ?"asked 
Mr.  Pedagog.  "You  have  frequently  stated 
that  your  income  barely  equalled  twenty- 
four  hundred  dollars  a  year." 

"Why  shouldn't  I?"  asked  the  Idiot, 
"It  doesn't  cost  any  more  to  look  for  a  four- 
thousand-dollar  apartment  than  it  does  to 
go  chasing  after  a  two-dollar-a-week  hall- 
bedroorn,  and  it  impresses  the  cab-driver 
with  a  sense  of  responsibility.  But  bagging 
these  gorgeous  apartments  does  not  consti 
tute  the  real  joy  of  flat-hunting.  For  solid 
8  107 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

satisfaction  and  real  sport  the  chase  for  a 
fifteen-hundred-dollar  apartment  in  a  decent 
neighborhood  bears  away  the  palm.  You 
can  get  plenty  of  roomy  suites  in  the  neigh 
borhood  of  a  boiler-factory,  or  next  door  to 
a  distillery,  or  back  of  a  fire-engine  house, 
at  reasonable  rents,  and  along  the  elevated 
railway  lines  much  that  is  impressive  is  to 
be  found  by  those  who  can  sleep  with  trains 
running  alongside  of  their  pillows  all  night; 
but  when  you  get  away  from  these,  the  real 
thing  at  that  figure  is  elusive.  Over  by  the 
Park  you  can  get  two  pigeon-holes  and  a 
bath,  with  a  southern  exposure,  for  nineteen 
hundred  dollars  a  year;  if  you  are  willing 
to  dispense  with  the  southern  exposure  you 
can  get  three  Black  Holes  of  Calcutta  and  a 
butler's  pantry,  in  the  same  neighborhood, 
for  sixteen  hundred  dollars,  but  you  have 
to  provide  your  own  air.  Farther  down 
town  you  will  occasionally  find  the  thing 
you  want  with  a  few  extras  in  the  shape  of 
cornet-players,  pianola-bangers,  and  perox 
ide  sopranos  on  either  side  of  you,  and  an 
osteopathic  veterinary  surgeon  on  the  ground 
108 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

floor  thrown  in.  Then  there  are  paper  flats 
that  can  be  had  for  twelve  hundred  dollars, 
but  you  can't  have  any  pictures  in  them, 
because  the  walls  won't  stand  the  weight, 
and  any  nail  of  reasonable  length  would 
stick  through  into  the  next  apartment.  A 
friend  of  mine  lived  in  one  of  these  affairs 
once,  and  when  he  inadvertently  leaned 
against  the  wall  one  night  he  fell  through 
into  his  neighbor's  bath-tub.  Of  course,  that 
sort  of  thing  promotes  sociability;  but  for 
a  home  most  people  want  just  a  little  privacy. 
And  so  the  list  runs  on.  You  would  really 
be  astonished  at  the  great  variety  of  dis 
comfort  able  dwelling-places  that  people  build. 
Such  high-art  decorations  as  you  encounter 
— purple  friezes  surmounting  yellow  dadoes; 
dragons  peeping  out  of  fruit-baskets;  ideal 
ized  tomatoes  in  full  bloom  chasing  one 
another  all  around  the  bedroom  walls.  Then 
the  architectural  inconveniences  they  pre 
sent  with  their  best  bedrooms  opening  into 
the  kitchen;  their  parlors  with  marble  wash- 
stands  with  running  water  in  the  corner; 
their  libraries  fitted  up  with  marvellous 
109 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

steam-radiators  arid  china-closets,  and  their 
kitchens  so  small  that  the  fire  in  the  range 
scorches  the  wall  opposite,  and  over  which 
nothing  but  an  asbestos  cook,  with  a  figure 
like  a  third  rail,  could  preside.  And,  best 
of  all,  there  are  the  janitors!  Why,  Mr.  Bib, 
the  study  of  the  janitor  and  his  habits  alone 
is  worthy  of  the  life-long  attention  of  the 
best  entomologist  that  ever  lived — and  yet 
you  say  there  is  nothing  educational  in  flat- 
hunting." 

"Oh,  well,"  said  the  Bibliomaniac,  "I 
meant  for  me.  There  are  a  lot  of  things 
that  would  be  educational  to  you  that  I 
should  regard  as  symptomatic  of  profound 
ignorance.  Everything  is  relative  in  this 
world." 

"That  is  true,"  said  the  Idiot;  "and  that 
is  why  every  April  1st  I  go  out  and  gloat 
over  the  miseries  of  the  flat-dwellers.  As 
long  as  I  can  do  that  I  am  happy  in  my  little 
cubby-hole  under  Mrs.  Pedagog's  hospitable 
roof." 

"Ah!  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  that," 
said  Mrs.  Pedagog.  "I  was  a  bit  fearful, 
110 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

Mr.  Idiot,  that  you  had  it  in  mind  to  move 
away  from  us." 

"No  indeed,  Mrs.  Pedagog,"  replied  the 
Idiot,  rising  from  the  table.  "You  need 
have  no  fear  of  that.  You  couldn't  get  me 
out  of  here  with  a  crow-bar.  If  I  did  not 
have  entire  confidence  in  your  lovely  house 
and  yourself,  you  don't  suppose  I  would 
permit  myself  to  get  three  months  behind  in 
my  board,  do  you?" 


THE  HOUSEMAID'S  UNION 

POTATOES,  sir?"  said  Mary,  the  wait 
ress  at  Mrs.  Smithers-Pedagog's  High- 
Class  Home  for  Single  Gentlemen,  stopping 
behind  the  Idiot's  chair  and  addressing  the 
back  of  his  neck  in  the  usual  boarding-house 
fashion. 

"Yes,  I  want  some  potatoes,  Man-  but 
before  I  take  them,"  the  Idiot  replied,  "I 
must  first  ascertain  whether  or  not  you  wear 
the  union  label,  and  what  is  the  exact  status 
also  of  the  potatoes.  My  principles  are  such 
that  I  cannot  permit  a  non-union  house 
maid  to  help  me  to  a  scab  potato,  whereas, 
if  you  belong  to  the  sisterhood,  arid  our 
stewed  friend  Murphy  here  has  been  raised 
upon  a  union  farm,  then,  indeed,  do  I  wish 
not  only  one  potato  but  many." 

112 


THE   GENIAL    IDIOT 

Mary's  reply  was  a  giggle. 

"Ah!"  said  the  Idiot.  "The  merry  ha-ha, 
eh?  All  right,  Mary.  That  is  for  the  pres 
ent  sufficient  evidence  that  your  conscience 
is  clear  on  this  very  important  matter.  As 
for  the  potatoes,  we  will  eat  them  not  ex 
actly  under  protest,  but  with  a  distinctly 
announced  proviso  in  advance  that  we  as 
sume  that  they  have  qualified  themselves 
for  admission  into  a  union  stomach.  I  hesi 
tate  to  think  of  what  will  happen  in  my  in 
terior  department  if  Murphy  is  deceiving  us." 

Whereupon  the  Idiot  came  into  possession 
of  a  goodly  portion  of  the  stewed  potatoes, 
and  Mary  fled  to  the  kitchen,  where  she  in 
formed  the  presiding  genius  of  the  range 
that  the  young  gentleman  was  crazier  than 
ever. 

"He's  talkin'  about  the  unions,  now, 
Bridget,"  said  she. 

"Is  he  agin  'em?"  demanded  Bridget,  with 
a  glitter  in  her  eye. 

"No,  he's  for  'em;  he  wouldn't  even 
drink  milk  from  a  non-union  cow,"  said 
Mary. 

113 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

"He's  a  foine  gintleman,"  said  Bridget. 
"Oi'll  make  his  waffles  a  soize  larger." 

Meanwhile  the  Bibliomaniac  had  chosen 
to  reflect  seriously  upon  the  Idiot's  intelli 
gence  for  his  approval  of  unions. 

"They  are  responsible  for  pretty  nearly 
all  the  trouble  there  is  at  the  present  mo 
ment,"  he  snapped  out,  angrily. 

"Oh,  go  along  with  you,"  retorted  the 
Idiot.  "The  trouble  we  have  these  days, 
like  all  the  rest  of  the  troubles  of  the  past, 
go  right  back  to  that  old  original  non-union 
apple  that  Eve  ate  and  Adam  got  the  core 
of.  You  know  that  as  well  as  I  do.  Even 
Adam  and  Eve,  untutored  children  of  nature 
though  they  were,  saw  it  right  off,  and  or 
ganized  a  union  on  the  spot,  which  has  in 
the  course  of  centuries  proven  the  most 
beneficent  institution  of  the  ages.  With  all 
due  respect  to  the  character  of  this  dwelling- 
place  of  ours — a  home  for  single  gentlemen — 
the  union  is  the  thing.  If  you  don't  belong 
to  one  you  may  be  tremendously  indepen 
dent,  but  you're  blooming  lonesome." 

"The  matrimonial  union,"  smiled  Mrs. 
114 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

Pedagog,  "is  indeed  a  blessed  institution, 
and,  having  been  married  twice,  I  can  testify 
from  experience;  but,  truly,  Mr.  Idiot,  I 
wish  you  wouldn't  put  notions  into  Mary's 
head  about  the  other  kind.  I  should  be 
sorry  if  she  were  to  join  that  housemaid's 
union  we  hear  so  much  about.  I  have 
trouble  enough  now  with  my  domestic  help 
without  having  a  walking  delegate  on  my 
hands  as  well." 

"No  doubt,"  acquiesced  the  Idiot.  "In 
their  beginnings  all  great  movements  have 
their  inconveniences,  but  in  the  end,  prop 
erly  developed,  a  housemaid's  union  wouldn't 
be  a  bad  thing  for  employers,  and  I  rather 
think  it  might  prove  a  good  thing.  Sup 
pose  one  of  your  servants  misbehaves  her 
self,  for  instance — I  remember  one  occasion 
in  this  very  house  when  it  required  the  united 
efforts  of  yourself,  Mr.  Pedagog,  three  police 
men,  and  your  humble  servant  to  effectively 
discharge  a  three-hundred-pound  queen  of 
the  kitchen,  who  had  looked  not  wisely  but 
too  often  on  the  cooking  sherry.  Now 
suppose  that  highly  cultivated  inebriate  had 
115 


THE   GENIAL    IDIOT 

belonged  to  a  self-respecting  union?  You 
wouldn't  have  had  to  discharge  her  at  all. 
A  telephone  message  to  the  union  head 
quarters,  despatched  while  the  lady  was  in 
dulging  in  one  of  her  tantrums,  would  have 
brought  an  inspector  to  the  house,  the  queen 
would  have  been  caught  with  the  goods  on, 
and  her  card  would  have  been  taken  from 
her,  so  that  by  the  mere  automatic  operation 
of  the  rules  of  her  own  organization  she 
could  no  longer  work  for  you.  Thus  you 
would  have  been  spared  some  highly  sea 
soned  language  which  I  have  for  years  tried 
to  forget;  Mr.  Pedagog's  eye  would  not  have 
been  punched  so  that  you  could  not  tell  your 
blue-eyed  boy  from  your  black-eyed  babe; 
I  should  never  have  lost  the  only  really  sat 
isfactory  red  necktie  I  ever  owned ;  and  three 
sturdy  policemen,  one  of  whom  had  often 
previously  acted  as  the  lady's  brother  on  her 
evenings  at  home,  and  the  others,  of  whom 
we  had  reason  to  believe  were  cousins  not 
many  times  removed,  would  not  have  been 
confronted  by  the  ungrateful  duty  of  club 
bing  one  who  had  frequently  fed  them  gen- 
116 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

erously  upon  your  cold  mutton  and  my 
beer." 

"Is  that  one  of  the  things  the  union  would 
do?"  queried  Mrs.  Pedagog,  brightening. 

"It  is  one  of  the  things  the  union  should 
do/'  said  the  Idiot.  "Similarly  with  your 
up-stairs  girl,  if  perchance  you  have  one. 
Suppose  she  got  into  the  habit,  which  I 
understand  is  not  all  an  uncommon  case, 
of  sweeping  the  dust  under  the  bureau  of 
your  bedroom  or  under  the  piano  in  the 
drawing-room.  Suppose  she  is  really  an 
adept  in  the  art  of  dust  concealment,  having 
a  full  comprehension  of  all  sixty  methods- 
hiding  it  under  tables,  sofas,  bookcases,  and 
rugs,  in  order  to  save  her  back?  You 
wouldn't  have  to  bother  with  her  at  all  under 
a  properly  equipped  union.  Upon  the  dis 
covery  of  her  delinquencies  you  would  merely 
have  to  send  for  the  union  inspector,  lift  up 
the  rug  and  show  her  the  various  vintages 
of  sweepings  the  maid  has  left  there :  Novem 
ber  ashes;  December  match-ends;  threads, 
needles,  and  pins  left  over  from  the  February 
meeting  of  the  Ibsen  Sewing-Circle  at  your 
117 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

house;  your  missing  tortoise-shell  hair-pin 
that  you  hadn't  laid  eyes  on  since  Septem 
ber;  the  grocer's  bill  for  October  that  you 
told  the  grocer  you  never  received— all  this 
in  March.  Do  you  suppose  that  that  in 
spector,  with  all  this  evidence  before  her 
eyes,  could  do  otherwise  than  prefer  charges 
against  the  offender  at  the  next  meeting  of 
the  Committee  on  Discipline  ?  Not  on  your 
life,  madam.  And,  what  is  more,  have  you 
the  slightest  doubt  that  one  word  of  reprimand 
from  that  same  Committee  on  Discipline 
would  prove  far  more  effective  in  reforming 
that  particular  offender  than  anything  you 
could  say  backed  by  the  eloquence  of  Burke 
and  the  thunderbolts  of  Jove?" 

"You  paint  a  beautiful  picture,"  said  the 
Doctor.  "But  suppose  you  happened  to 
draw  a  rotten  cook  in  the  domestic  lottery 
— a  good  woman,  but  a  regular  scorcher. 
Where  does  your  inspector  come  in  there? 
Going  to  invite  her  to  dine  with  you  so  as 
to  demonstrate  the  girl's  incompetence?" 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  the  Idiot.  "That  would 
make  trouble  right  away.  The  cook  very 
118 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

properly  would  say  that  the  inspector  was 
influenced  by  the  social  attention  she  was 
receiving  from  the  head  of  the  house,  and 
the  woman's  effectiveness  as  a  disciplinarian 
would  be  immediately  destroyed.  I'd  put 
half  portions  of  the  burned  food  in  a  sealed 
package  and  send  it  to  the  Committee  on 
Culinary  Improvement  for  their  inspection. 
A  better  method  which  time. would  probably 
bring  into  practice  would  be  for  the  union 
itself  to  establish  a  system  of  domiciliary 
visits,  by  which  the  cook's  work  should  be 
subjected  to  a  constant  inspection  by  the 
union — the  object  being,  of  course,  to  pre 
vent  trouble  rather  than  to  punish  after  the 
event.  The  inspector's  position  would  be 
something  like  that  of  the  bank  examiner, 
who  turns  up  at  our  financial  institutions 
at  unexpected  moments,  and  sees  that  every 
thing  is  going  right." 

"Oh,  bosh!"  said  the  Doctor.     "You  are 
talking  of  ideals." 

"Certainly    I    am,"    returned    the   Idiot. 
"Why    shouldn't    I?    What's    the    use    of 
wasting  one's  breath  on  anything  else?" 
119 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

"Well,  it's  all  rot!"  put  in  Mr.  Brief. 
" There  never  was  any  such  union  as  that, 
and  there  never  will  be." 

"You  are  the  last  person  in  the  world  to 
say  a  thing  like  that,  Mr.  Brief/'  said  the 
Idiot  —  "you,  who  belong  to  the  nearest 
approach  to  the  ideal  union  that  the  world 
has  ever  known!" 

"What!  Me?"  demanded  the  Lawyer. 
"Me?  I  belong  to  a  union?" 

"Of  course  you  do — or  at  least  you  told 
me  you  did,"  said  the  Idiot. 

"Well,  you  are  the  worst!"  retorted  Mr. 
Brief,  angrily.  "When  did  I  ever  tell  you 
that  I  belonged  to  a  union?" 

"Last  Friday  night  at  dinner,  and  in  the 
presence  of  this  goodly  company,"  said  the 
Idiot.  "You  were  bragging  about  it,  too — 
said  that  no  institution  in  existence  had 
done  more  to  uplift  the  moral  tone  of  the 
legal  profession ;  that  through  its  efforts 
the  corrupt  practitioner  and  the  shys 
ter  were  gradually  being  driven  to  the 
wall—" 

"Well,  this  beats  me,"  said  Mr.  Brief.  " I 
120 


THE   GENIAL    IDIOT 

recall  telling  at  dinner  on  Friday  night  about 
the  Bar  Association— 

" Precisely,"  said  the  Idiot.  "That's  what 
I  referred  to.  If  the  Bar  Association  isn't 
a  Lawyer's  Union  Number  Six  of  the  highest 
type,  I  don't  know  what  is.  It  is  conducted 
by  the  most  brilliant  minds  in  the  profession  ; 
its  honors  are  eagerly  sought  after  by  the 
brainiest  laborers  in  the  field  of  Coke  arid 
Blackstone;  its  stern,  relentless  eye  is  fixed 
upon  the  evil-doer,  and  it  is  an  effective  in 
strument  for  reform  not  only  in  its  own  pro 
fession,  but  in  the  State  as  well.  What  I 
would  have  the  Housemaid's  Union  do  for 
domestic  servants  and  for  the  home,  the 
Bar  Association  does  for  the  legal  profession 
and  for  the  State,  and  if  the  lawyers  can  do 
this  thing  there  is  no  earthly  reason  why  the 
housemaids  shouldn't." 

" Pah !"  ejaculated  Mr.  Brief.  "  You  place 
the  bar  and  domestic  service  on  the  same 
plane  of  importance,  do  you?" 

"No,  I  don't,"  said  the  Idiot.  "Shouldn't 
think  of  doing  so.  Twenty  people  need 
housemaids,  where  one  requires  a  lawyer; 
121 


THE   GENIAL    IDIOT 

therefore  the  domestic  is  the  more  important 
of  the  two." 

"Humph!"  said  Mr.  Brief,  with  an  angry 
laugh.  "Intellectual  qualifications,  I  sup 
pose,  go  for  nothing  in  the  matter." 

"Well,  I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  the 
Idiot.  "I  guess,  however,  that  there  are 
more  housemaids  earning  a  living  to-day 
than  lawyers — and,  besides — oh,  well,  never 
mind —  What's  the  use?  I  don't  wish  to 
quarrel  about  it." 

"Go  on — don't  mind  me — I'm  really  in 
terested  to  know  what  further  you  can  say," 
snapped  Mr.  Brief.  "Besides — what?" 

"Only  this,  that  when  it  comes  to  the  in 
tellectuals—  Well,  really,  Mr.  Brief,"  asked 
the  Idiot,  "really  now,  did  you  ever  hear  of 
anybody  going  to  an  intelligence  office  for  a 
lawyer?" 

Mr.  Brief's  reply  was  not  inaudible,  for  just 
at  that  moment  he  swallowed  his  coffee  the 
wrong  way,  and  in  the  effort  to  bring  him 
to,  the  thread  of  the  argument  snapped,  and 
up  to  the  hour  of  going  to  press  had  not  been 

tied  together  again. 

122 


XI 

THE   GENTLE   ART   OF   BOOSTING 

THE  Idiot  was  very  late  at  breakfast — 
so  extremely  late,  in  fact,  that  some 
apprehension  was  expressed  by  his  fellow- 
boarders  as  to  the  state  of  his  health. 

"I  hope  he  isn't  ill/'  said  Mr.  Whitechoker. 
"He  is  usually  so  prompt  at  his  meals  that  I 
fear  something  is  the  matter  with  him." 

"He's  all  right/'  said  the  Doctor,  whose 
room  adjoins  that  of  the  Idiot  in  Mrs.  Smith- 
ers-Pedagog's  Select  Home  for  Single  Gen 
tlemen.  "He'll  be  down  in  a  minute.  He's 
suffering  from  an  overdose  of  vacation — 
rested  too  hard." 

Just  then  the  subject  of  the  conversation 
appeared  in  the  doorway,  pale  and  haggard, 
but  with  an  eye  that  boded  ill  for  the  larder. 

9  123 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

"Quick!"  he  cried,  as  he  entered.  "Lead 
me  to  a  square  meal.  Mary,  please  give  me 
four  bowls  of  mush,  ten  medium  soft-boiled 
eggs,  a  barrel  of  saute  potatoes,  and  eighteen 
dollars'  worth  of  corned-beef  hash.  I'll  have 
two  pots  of  coffee,  Mrs.  Fed  agog,  please, 
four  pounds  of  sugar,  and  a  can  of  condensed 
milk.  If  there  is  any  extra  charge  you  may 
put  it  on  the  bill,  and  some  day,  when  the 
common  stock  of  the  Continental  Hen  Trust 
goes  up  thirty  or  forty  points,  I'll  pay." 

"What's  the  matter  with  you,  Mr.  Idiot?" 
asked  Mr.  Brief.  "  Been  fasting  for  a  week  ?" 

"No,"  replied  the  Idiot.  "I've  just  taken 
my  first  week's  vacation,  and,  between  you 
and  me,  I've  come  back  to  business  so  as 
to  get  rested  for  the  second." 

"Doesn't  look  as  though  vacation  agreed 
with  you,"  said  the  Bibliomaniac. 

"It  doesn't,"  said  the  Idiot.  "Hereafter 
I  am  an  advocate  of  the  rest-while-you-work 
system.  Never  take  a  day  off  if  you  can 
help  it.  There's  nothing  so  restful  as  pay 
ing  attention  to  business,  and  no  greater 
promoter  of  weariness  of  spirit  and  vexation 
124 


THE   GENIAL    IDIOT 

of  your  digestion  than  the  modern  style  of 
vacating.  No  more  for  mine,  if  you  please." 

' ' Humph ! ' '  sneered  the  Bibliomaniac .  "I 
suppose  you  went  to  Coney  Island  to  get 
rested  up,  bumping  the  bump  and  looping 
the  loop,  and  doing  a  lot  of  other  crazy 
things." 

"Not  I,"  quoth  the  Idiot.  "I  didn't  have 
sense  enough  to  go  to  some  quiet  place  like 
Coney  Island,  where  you  can  get  seven  square 
meals  a  day,  and  then  climb  into  a  Ferris- 
wheel  and  be  twirled  around  in  the  air  until 
they  have  been  properly  shaken  down.  I 
took  one  of  the  Four  Hundred  vacations. 
Know  what  that  is?" 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Brief.  "I  didn't  know 
there  were  four  hundred  vacations  with  only 
three  hundred  and  sixty-five  days  in  the 
year.  What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean  the  kind  of  vacation  the  people 
in  the  Four  Hundred  take,"  explained  the 
Idiot.  "I've  been  to  a  house-party  up  in 
Newport  with  some  friends  of  mine  who 're 
1  in  the  swim/  and  I  tell  you  it's  hard  swim 
ming.  You'll  never  hear  me  talking  about 
125 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

a  leisure  class  in  this  country  again.  Those 
people  don't  know  what  leisure  is.  I  don't 
wonder  they're  always  such  a  tired-looking 
lot." 

"I  was  not  aware  that  you  were  in  with 
the  Smart  Set,"  said  the  Bibliomaniac. 

"Oh  yes,"  said  the  Idiot.  "I'm  in  with 
several  of  'em — 'way  in;  so  far  in  that  I'm 
sometimes  afraid  I'll  never  get  out.  We're 
carrying  a  whole  lot  of  wild-cats  on  mar 
gin  for  Billie  Van  Gelder,  the  cotillon  leader. 
Tommy  de  Cahoots,  the  famous  yachtsman, 
owes  us  about  eight  thousand  dollars  more 
than  he  can  spare  from  his  living  expenses 
on  one  of  his  plunges  into  Copper,  and  alto 
gether  we  are  pretty  long  on  swells  in  our 
office." 

"And  do  you  mean  to  say  those  people 
invite  you  out?"  asked  the  Bibliomaniac. 

"All  the  time,"  said  the  Idiot.  "Just  as 
soon  as  one  of  our  swell  customers  finds  he 
can't  pay  his  margins  he  comes  down  to  the 
office  and  gets  very  chummy  with  all  of  us. 
The  deeper  he  is  in  it  the  more  affable  he 
becomes.  The  result  is  there  are  house- 
126 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

parties  and  yacht-cruises  and  all  that  sort 
of  thing  galore  on  tap  for  us  every  sum 
mer." 

"And  you  accept  them,  eh?"  said  the 
Bibliomaniac,  scornfully. 

"As  a  matter  of  business,  of  course,"  re 
plied  the  Idiot.  "We've  got  to  get  some 
thing  out  of  it.  If  one  of  our  customers 
can't  pay  cash,  why,  we  get  what  we  can. 
In  this  particular  case  Mr.  Reginald  Squan- 
dercash  had  me  down  at  Newport  for  five 
full  days,  and  I  know  now  why  he  can't  pay 
up  his  little  shortage  of  eight  hundred  dol 
lars.  He's  got  the  money,  but  he  needs  it  for 
other  things,  and,  now  that  I  know  it,  I  shall 
recommend  the  firm  to  give  him  an  exten 
sion  of  thirty  days.  By  that  time  he  will 
have  collected  from  the  De  Boodles,  whom 
he  is  launching  in  society,  C.  O.  D.,  and  will 
be  able  to  square  matters  with  us." 

"Your  conversation  is  Greek  to  me," 
said  the  Bibliomaniac.  "Who  are  the  De 
Boodles,  and  for  what  do  they  owe  your 
friend  Reginald  Squandercash  money?" 

"The  De  Boodles,"  explained  the  Idiot, 
127 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

"are  what  are  known  as  climbers,  and  Reg 
inald  Squandercash  is  a  booster." 

"A  what?"  cried  the  Bibliomaniac. 

"A  booster/'  said  the  Idiot.  "There  are 
several  boosters  in  the  Four  Hundred.  For 
a  consideration  they  will  boost  wealthy  climb 
ers  into  society.  The  climbers  are  people  like 
the  De  Boodles,  who  have  suddenly  come 
into  great  wealth,  and  who  wish  to  be  in  it 
with  others  of  great  wealth  who  are  also  of 
high  social  position.  They  don't  know  how 
to  do  the  trick,  so  they  seek  out  some  booster 
like  Reggie,  strike  a  bargain  with  him,  and 
he  steers  'em  up  against  the  '  Arnong-Those- 
Present'  game  until  finally  you  find  the  De 
Boodles  have  a  social  cinch." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  society  toler 
ates  such  a  business  as  that?"  demanded  the 
Bibliomaniac. 

"Tolerates?"  laughed  the  Idiot.  "What 
a  word  to  use!  Tolerate?  Why,  society  en 
courages,  because  society  shares  the  bene 
fits.  Take  this  especial  vacation  of  mine. 
Society  had  two  five-o'clock  teas,  four  of 
the  swellest  dinners  you  ever  sat  down  to,  a 
128 


THE   GENIAL    IDIOT 

cotillon  where  the  favors  were  of  solid  sil 
ver  and  real  ostrich  feathers,  a  whole  day's 
clam-bake  on  Reggie's  steam-yacht,  with 
automobile-runs  and  coaching-trips  galore. 
Nobody  ever  declines  one  of  Reggie's  invi 
tations,  because  what  he  has  from  a  society 
point  of  view  is  the  best  the  market  affords. 
Why,  the  floral  decorations  alone  at  the  fete 
champetre  he  gave  in  honor  of  the  De  Boodles 
at  his  villa  last  Thursday  night  must  have 
cost  five  thousand  dollars,  and  everything 
was  on  the  same  scale.  I  don't  believe  a 
cent  less  than  seventy-five  hundred  dollars 
was  burned  up  in  the  fire-works,  and  every 
lady  present  received  a  souvenir  of  the  oc 
casion  that  cost  at  least  one  hundred  dollars." 
"Your  story  doesn't  quite  hold  together," 
said  Mr.  Brief.  "If  your  friend  Reggie  has 
a  villa  and  a  steam-yacht,  and  automobiles 
and  coaches,  and  gives  fetes  champetres  that 
cost  fifteen  or  twenty  thousand  dollars,  I 
don't  see  why  he  has  to  make  himself  a 
booster  of  inferior  people  who  want  to  get 
into  society.  What  does  he  gain  by  it? 
It  surely  isn't  sport  to  do  a  thing  like  that, 
129 


THE   GENIAL    IDIOT 

and  I  should  think  he'd  find  it  a  dreadful 
bore.'" 

"The  man  must  live,"  said  the  Idiot. 
"He  boosts  for  a  living." 

"When  he  has  the  wealth  of  Monte 
Cristo  at  his  command?"  demanded  Mr. 
Brief. 

"Reggie  hasn't  a  cent  to  his  name,"  said 
the  Idiot.  "I've  already  told  you  he  owes 
us  eight  hundred  dollars  he  can't  pay." 

"Then  who  in  thunder  pays  for  the  villa 
and  the  lot  and  all  those  hundred-dollar 
souvenirs?"  asked  the  Doctor. 

"Why,  this  year,  the  De  Boodles,"  said 
the  Idiot.  "Last  year  it  was  Colonel  and 
Mrs.  Moneybags,  whose  daughter,  Miss  Fay- 
ette  Moneybags,  is  now  clinching  the  posi 
tion  Reggie  sold  her  at  Newport  over  in 
London,  whither  Reggie  has  consigned  her  to 
his  sister,  an  impecunious  American  duch 
ess — the  Duchess  of  Nocash — who  is  also 
in  the  boosting  business.  The  chances  are 
Miss  Moneybags  will  land  one  of  England's 
most  deeply  indebted  peers,  and,  if  she  does, 
Reggie  will  receive  a  handsome  check  for 
130 


THE   GENIAL    IDIOT 

steering  the  family  up  against  so  attractive 
a  proposition." 

"And  you  mean  to  tell  us  that  a  plain 
man  like  old  John  De  Boodle,  of  Nevada,  is 
putting  out  his  hard-earned  wealth  in  that 
way?"  demanded  Mr.  Brief. 

"I  didn't  mean  to  mention  any  names," 
said  the  Idiot.  "But  you've  spotted  the 
victim.  Old  John  De  Boodle,  who  made  his 
sixty  million  dollars  in  six  months,  after  hav 
ing  kept  a  saloon  on  the  frontier  for  forty 
years,  is  the  man.  His  family  wants  to  get 
in  the  swim,  and  Reggie  is  turning  the  trick 
for  them;  and,  after  all,  what  better  way  is 
there  for  De  Boodle  to  get  in?  He  might 
take  sixty  villas  at  Newport  and  not  get 
even  a  peep  at  the  divorce  colony  there,  much 
less  a  glimpse  of  the  monogamous  set  acting 
independently.  Not  a  monkey  in  the  Zoo 
would  dine  with  the  De  Boodles,  and  in  his 
most  eccentric  moment  I  doubt  if  Tommy 
Dare  would  take  them  up,  unless  there  was 
somebody  to  stand  sponsor  for  them.  A 
cool  million  might  easily  be  expended  with 
out  results  by  the  De  Boodles  themselves; 
131 


THE   GENIAL    IDIOT 

but  hand  that  money  over  to  Reggie  Squan- 
dercash,  whose  blood  is  as  blue  as  his  cred 
it  ors'  sometimes  get,  and  you  can  look  for 
results.  What  the  Trohman's  are  to  the 
stage,  Reggie  Squandercash  is  to  society. 
He's  right  in  it;  popular  as  all  spenders  are; 
lavish  as  all  people  spending  other  people's 
money  are  apt  to  be.  Old  De  Boodle,  egged 
on  by  Mrs.  De  Boodle  and  Miss  Mary  Ann 
De  Boodle  (now  known  as  Miss  Marianne  De 
Boodle),  goes  to  Reggie  and  says:  'The  old 
lady  and  my  girl  are  nutty  on  society.  Can 
you  land  'em?'  'Certainly/  says  Reggie, 
'if  your  pocket  is  long  enough/  'How  long 
is  that?'  asks  De  Boodle,  wincing  a  bit. 
'A  hundred  thousand  a  month,  and  no  ex 
tras,  until  you're  in/  says  Reggie.  'No 
reduction  for  families?'  asks  De  Boodle, 
anxiously.  '  No/  says  Reggie.  ' Harder  job.' 
'All  right/  says  De  Boodle,  'here's  my  check 
for  the  first  month/  That's  how  Reggie 
gets  his  Newport  villa,  his  servants,  his 
horses,  yacht,  automobiles,  and  coaches. 
Then  he  invites  the  De  Boodles  up  to  visit 
him.  They  accept,  and  the  fun  begins. 
132 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

First  it's  a  little  dinner  to  meet  my  friends 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  De  Boodle,  of  Nevada.  Ev 
erybody  there,  hungry,  dinner  from  Sherry's, 
best  wines  in  the  market.  De  Boodles  cov 
ered  with  diamonds,  a  great  success,  espe 
cially  old  John  De  Boodle,  who  tells  racy 
stories  over  the  demi-tasse  when  the  ladies 
have  gone  into  the  drawing-room.  De 
Boodle  voted  a  character.  Next  thing, 
bridge- whist  party.  Everybody  there.  So 
ciety  a  good  winner.  The  De  Boodles  mag 
nificent  losers.  Popularity  cinched.  Next, 
yachting-party.  Everybody  on  board.  De 
Boodle  on  deck  in  fine  shape.  Champagne 
flows  like  Niagara.  Poker  game  in  main 
cabin.  Food  everywhere.  De  Boodles  much 
easier.  Stiffness  wearing  off,  and  so  on  and 
so  on,  until  finally  Miss  De  Boodle's  portrait 
is  printed  in  nineteen  Sunday  newspapers 
all  over  the  country.  They're  launched,  and 
Reggie  comes  into  his  own  with  a  profit  for 
the  season  in  a  cash  balance  of  fifty  thou 
sand  dollars.  He's  had  a  bully  time  all 
summer,  entertained  like  a  prince,  and 
comes  to  the  rainy  season  with  a  tidy 
133 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

little  umbrella  to  keep  him  out  of  the 
wet." 

"And  can  he  count  on  that  as  a  permanent 
business?"  asked  Mr.  Whitechoker. 

"My  dear  sir,  the  rock  of  Gibraltar  is  no 
solider  and  no  more  permanent,"  said  the 
Idiot.  "For  as  long  as  there  is  a  Four  Hun 
dred  in  existence,  human  nature  is  such  that 
there  will  also  be  a  million  who  will  want 
to  get  into  it." 

"At  such  a  cost?"  demanded  the  Biblio 
maniac. 

"At  any  cost,"  replied  the  Idiot.  "Even 
people  who  know  they  cannot  swim  want  to 
get  in  it." 


XII 

HE  MAKES  A   SUGGESTION   TO   THE   POET 

GOOD-MORNING,  Homer,  my  boy," 
said  the  Idiot,  genially,  as  the  Poet  en 
tered  the  breakfast-room.  "All  hail  to  thee. 
Thou  art  the  bright  particular  bird  of  plu 
mage  I  most  hoped  to  see  this  rare  and 
beauteous  summer  morning.  No  sweet-sing 
ing  robin-redbreast  or  soft-honking  canvas- 
back  for  yours  truly  this  A.M.,  when  a  living, 
breathing,  palpitating  son  of  the  Muses  lurks 
near  at  hand.  I  fain  would  make  thee  a 
proposition,  Shakespeare  dear!" 

"Back  pedal  there!  Avaunt  with  your 
flowery  speech,  oh  Idiot!"  cried  the  Doctor. 
"Else  will  I  call  an  ambulance." 

"No  ambulance  for  mine,"  chortled  the 
Idiot. 

135 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

"Nay,  Sweet  Gas-bags,"  quoth  the  Doc 
tor.  "But  for  once  I  fear  me  we  may  be 
scorched  by  this  Pel6e  of  words  that  thou 
spoutest  forth." 

"What's  the  proposition,  Mr.  Idiot?" 
asked  the  Poet.  "I'm  always  open  to  any 
thing  of  the  kind,  as  the  Subway  said  when 
an  automobile  fell  into  it.' 

"I  thirst  for  laurels,"  said  the  Idiot,  "and 
I  propose  that  you  and  I  collaborate  on  a 
book  of  poems  for  early  publication.  With 
your  name  on  the  title-page  and  my  poems 
in  the  book  I  think  we  can  make  a  go  of  it." 

"What's  the  lay?"  asked  the  Poet,  amused, 
but  wary.  "Sonnets,  or  French  forms,  or 
just  plain  snatches  of  song?" 

"Any  old  thing  as  long  as  it  runs  smooth 
ly,"  replied  the  Idiot.  "Only  the  poems 
must  fit  the  title  of  the  book,  which  is  to  be 
Now." 

"Noiv?"  said  the  Poet. 

"Now!"  repeated  the  Idiot.     "1  find  in 

reading  over  the  verse  of  the  day  that  the 

'Now'  poem  always  finds  a  ready  market. 

Therefore,  there  must  be  money  in  it,  and 

136 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

where  the  money  goes  there  the  laurels  are. 
You  know  what  Browning  Robinson,  the 
Laureate  of  Wall  Street,  wrote  in  his  '  Mes 
sage  to  Posterity': 

" '  Oh,  when  you  come  to  crown  my  brow, 

Bring  me  no  bay  nor  sorrel; 
Give  me  no  parsley  wreath,  but  just 
The  legal  long  green  laurel.' ;; 

"I  never  heard  that  poem  before,"  laughed 
the  Poet,  "though  the  sentiment  in  these 
commercial  days  is  not  unfamiliar." 

"True,"  said  the  Idiot.  "Alfred  Austin 
Biggs,  of  Texas,  voiced  the  same  idea  when 
he  said: 

"'Crown  me  not  with  spinach, 
Wreathe  me  not  with  hay; 
Place  no  salad  on  my  head 
When  you  bring  the  bay. 
Give  me  not  the  water-cresses 
To  adorn  my  flowing  tresses, 
But  at  e'en 

Crown  my  pockets  good  and  strong 
With  the  green — 
The  green  that's  long.'  " 
137 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

"Do  you  remember  that?"  asked  the 
Idiot. 

"Only  faintly,"  said  the  Poet.  "I  think 
you  read  it  to  me  once  before,  just  after  you 
— er— ah— rather  just  after  Alfred  Austin 
Biggs,  of  Texas — wrote  it." 

The  Idiot  laughed.  "I  see  you're  on," 
he  said.  "Anyhow,  it's  good  sentiment, 
whether  I  wrote  it  or  Biggs.  Fact  is,  in 
my  judgment,  what  the  poet  of  to-day  ought 
to  do  is  to  collect  the  long  green  from  the 
present  and  the  laurel  from  posterity.  That's 
a  fair  division.  But  what  do  you  say  to 
my  proposition?" 

"Well,  it's  certainly — er — cheeky  enough," 
said  the  Poet.  "Do  I  understand  it?— you 
want  me  to  father  your  poems.  To  tell  the 
truth,  until  I  hear  some  of  them,  I  can't 
promise  to  be  more  than  an  uncle  to 
them." 

"That's  all  right,"  said  the  Idiot.  "You 
ought  to  be  cautious,  as  a  matter  of  protec 
tion  to  your  own  name.  I've  got  some  of 
the  goods  right  here.  Here's  a  little  thing 
called  'Summer-tide!'  It  shows  the  whole 
138 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

1  Now ;  principle  in   a    nutshell.     Listen   to 
this: 


"  Now  the  festive  frog  is  croaking  in  the  mere, 
And  the  canvasback  is  honking  in  the  bay, 
And  the  summer-girl  is  smiling  full  of  cheer 
On  the  willieboys  that  chance  along  her  way. 

"  Now  the  skeeter  sings  his  carols  to  the  dawn, 

And  bewails  the  early  closing  of  the  bar 
That  prevents  the  little  nips  he  seeks  each  morn 
On  the  sea-shore  where  the  fatling  boarders 
are. 

"  Now  the  landlord  of  the  pastoral  hotel 

Spends  his  mornings,  nights,  and  eke  his  af 
ternoons, 
Scheming  plans  to  get  more  milk  from  out  the 

well, 
And  a  hundred  novel  ways  of  cooking  prunes. 

"  Now  the  pumpkin  goes  a  pumpking  through 

the  fields, 

And  the  merry  visaged  cows  are  chewing  cud ; 
And  the  profits  that  the  plumber's  business 

yields 

Come  a-tumbling  to  the  earth  with  deadly 
thud. 

139 


THE   GENIAL    IDIOT 

"  And  from  all  of  this  we  learn  the  lesson  sweet, 
The  soft  message    of  Dame  Nature,  grand 

and  clear, 
That  the  winter-time  is  gone  with  storm  and 

sleet, 
And  the  soft  and  jolly  summer-tide  is  here. 

How's  that  ?     Pretty  fair  ?" 

"Well,  I  might  consent  to  be  a  cousin 
to  a  poem  of  that  kind.  I've  read  worse 
and  written  some  that  are  quite  as  bad. 
But  you  know,  Mr.  Idiot,  even  so  great  a 
masterpiece  as  that  won't  make  a  book," 
said  the  Poet. 

"Of  course  it  won't,"  retorted  the  Idiot. 
"That's  only  for  the  summer.  Here's  an 
other  one  on  winter.  Just  listen: 

"  Now  the  man  who  deals  in  mittens  and  in  tabs 

Is  a-smiling  broadly — aye,  from  ear  to  ear — 

As  he  reaches  out  his  hand  and  fondly  grabs 

All  the  shining,  golden  shekels  falling  near. 

"  Now  the  snow  lies  on  the  hill-side  and  the  roof, 

And  the  birdling  to  the  sunny  southland  flies; 

While  the  frowning  summer  landlord  stands 

aloof, 

And  to  solemncholy  meditation  hies. 
140 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

"  Now  the  tinkling  of  the  sleigh-bells  tinge  the  air, 

And  the  coal-man  is  as  happy  as  can  be; 
While  the  hulking,  sulking,  grizzly  seeks  his  lair, 
And  the  ice-man's  soul  is  filled  with  misery. 

"  Clad  in  frost  are  all  the  distant  mountain-peaks, 

And  the  furnace  is  as  hungry  as  a  boy; 
While  the  plumber,  as  he  gloats  upon  the  leaks, 
Is  the  model  that  the  painter  takes  for  'Joy.' 

"  And  from  all  of  this  we  learn  the  lesson  sweet — 
The  glad  message  of  Dame  Nature,  grand 

and  clear: 
That  the  summer-time  has  gone  with  all  its 

heat, 
And  the  crisp  and  frosty  winter  days  are  here. 

You  see,  Mr.  Poet,  that  out  of  that  one 
idea  alone — that  cataloguing  of  the  things 
of  the  four  seasons — you  can  get  four  poems 
that  are  really  worth  reading,"  said  the 
Idiot.  "We  could  call  that  section  'The 
Seasons/  and  make  it  the  first  part  of  the 
book.  In  the  second  part  we  could  do  the 
same  thing,  only  in  greater  detail,  for  each 
one  of  the  months.  Just  as  a  sample,  take 
the  month  of  February.  We  could  run 
something  like  this  in  on  February: 
HI 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

"  Now  o'er  the  pavement  comes  a  hush 
As  pattering  feet  wade  deep  in  slush 
That  every  Feb. 
Doth  flow  and  ebb." 

"I  see/'  said  the  Poet.  "It  wouldn't 
take  long  to  fill  up  a  book  with  stuff  like 
that." 

"To  make  the  appeal  stronger,  let  me  take 
the  month  of  July,  which  is  now  on,"  resumed 
the  Idiot.  "You  may  find  it  even  more 
convincing : 

"  Now  the  fly— 
The  rhubarb-pie — 
The  lightning  in  the  sky — 
Thermometers  so  spry— 
That  leap  up  high — 
The  roads  all  dry, 
The  hoboes  nigh, 
The  town  a-fry, 
The  mad  ki-yi 
A-snarling  by, 
The  crickets  cry — 
All  tell  us  that  it  is  July. 

Eh?" 

"I  don't  believe  anybody  would  believe 
142 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

I  wrote  it,  that's  all,"  said  the  Poet,  shak 
ing  his  head  dubiously.  "They'd  find  out, 
sooner  or  later,  that  you  did  it,  just  as  they 
discovered  that  Will  Carleton  wrote  'Para 
dise  Lost/  and  Dick  Davis  was  the  real 
author  of  Shakespeare.  Why  don't  you 
publish  the  thing  over  your  own  name?" 

"Too  modest,"  said  the  Idiot.  "What 
do  you  think  of  this : 

"  Now  the  festive  candidate 
Goes  a-sporting  through  the  State, 

And  he  kisses  babes  from  Quogue  to  Kalamazoo ; 
For  he  really  wants  to  win 
Without  spending  any  tin, 

And  he  thinks  he  has  a  chance  to  kiss  it  through." 

"That's  fair,  only  I  don't  think  you'll 
find  many  candidates  doing  that  sort  of 
thing  nowadays,"  said  the  Poet.  "Most 
public  men  I  know  of  would  rather  spend 
their  money  than  kiss  the  babies.  That 
style  of  campaigning  has  gone  out." 

"It  has  in  the  cities,"  said  the  Idiot. 
"But  back  in  the  country  it  is  still  done,  and 
the  candidate  who  turns  his  back  on  the 

143 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

infant  might  as  well  give  up  the  race.  I 
know,  because  a  cousin  of  mine  ran  for  su 
pervisor  once,  and  he  was  licked  out  of  his 
boots  because  he  tried  to  do  his  kissing  by 
proxy — said  he'd  give  the  kisses  in  a  bunch 
to  a  committee  of  young  ladies,  who  could 
distribute  them  for  him.  Result  was  every 
body  was  down  on  him — even  the  young 
ladies." 

"I  guess  he  was  a  cousin  of  yours,  all 
right,"  laughed  the  Doctor;  ''that  scheme 
bears  the  Idiot  brand." 

"  Here's  one  on  the  opening  of  the  opera 
season,"  said  the  Idiot: 

"Now  the  fiddlers  tune  their  fiddles 
To  the  lovely  taradiddles 

Of  old  Wagner,   Mozart,   Bizet,  and  the  rest. 
Now  the  trombone  is  a-tooting 
Out  its  scaley  shute-the-chuteing 

And  the  oboe  is  hoboing  with  a  zest. 

"  Now  the  dressmakers  are  working — 

Not  a  single  minute  shirking — 
Making  gowns   with  frills  and  fal-lals  mighty 
queer, 

144 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

For  the  Autumn  days  are  flying, 
And  there's  really  no  denying 
That  the  season  of  the  opera  is  near." 

Mr.  Brief  took  a  hand  in  the  discussion 
at  this  moment. 

"Then  you  can  have  a  blanket  verse/' 
he  said,  scribbling  with  his  pencil  on  a  piece 
of  paper  in  front  of  him.  "Something  like 
this: 

"  And  as  Time  goes  on  a-stalking, 

And  the  Idiot  still  is  talking 
In  his  usual  blatant  manner,  loud  and  free, 
With  his  silly  jokes  and  rhyme, 
It  is — well  it's  any  time 

From  Creation  to  the   jumping-off  place   that 
you'll  find  at  the  far  end  of  Eterni-tie." 

"That  settles  it,"  said  the  Idiot,  rising. 
"I  withdraw  my  proposition.  Let's  call  it 
off,  Mr.  Poet." 

"What's  the  matter?"  asked  Mr.  Brief. 
"Isn't  my  verse  good?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  Idiot.  "Just  as  good  as 
mine,  and  that  being  the  case  it  isn't  worth 
doing.  When  lawyers  can  write  as  good 
145 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

poetry  as  real  poets,  it  doesn't  pay  to  be  a 
real  poet.  I'm  going  in  for  something  else. 
I  guess  I'll  apply  for  a  job  as  a  motorman, 
and  make  a  name  for  myself  there." 

"Can  a  rnotorman  make  a  name  for  him 
self?"  asked  the  Doctor. 

"Oh  yes,"  said  the  Idiot.  "Easily.  By 
being  civil.  A  civil  motorman  would  be 
unique." 

"But  he  wouldn't  make  a  fortune,"  sug 
gested  the  Poet. 

"Yes  he  would,  too,"  said  the  Idiot.  "If 
he  could  prove  he  really  was  civil,  the  vaude 
ville  people  would  pay  him  a  thousand  dol 
lars  a  week  and  tour  the  country  with  him. 
He'd  draw  mobs." 

With  which  the  Idiot  left  the  dining-room. 

"I  think  lu's  poems  would  sell,"  smiled 
Mrs.  Pedagog. 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Pedagog.  "Chopped  up 
fine  and  properly  advertised,  they  might 
make  a  very  successful  new  kind  of  break 
fast  food — provided  the  paper  on  whicli  they 
were  written  was  not  too  indigestible." 
146 


XIII 

HE   DISCUSSES  THE  MUSIC  CURE 


«/^OOD-  MORNING,  Doctor,"  said  the 
\JT  Idiot,  as  Capsule,  M.D.,  entered  the 
dining-room,  "I  am  mighty  glad  you've 
come.  I've  wanted  for  a  long  time  to  ask 
you  about  this  music  cure  that  everybody 
is  talking  about,  and  get  you,  if  possible,  to 
write  me  out  a  list  of  musical  nostrums  for 
every-day  use.  I  noticed  last  night,  before 
going  to  bed,  that  my  medicine-chest  was 
about  run  out.  There's  nothing  but  one 
quinine  pill  and  a  soda-mint  drop  left  in  it, 
and  if  there's  anything  in  the  music  cure,  I 
don't  think  I'll  have  it  filled  again.  I  prefer 
Wagner  to  squills,  and,  compared  to  the 
delights  of  Mozart,  Hayden,  and  Offenbach, 
those  of  paregoric  are  nit." 
147 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

"Still  rambling,  eh?"  vouchsafed  the  Doc 
tor.  "You  ought  to  submit  your  tongue 
to  some  scientific  student  of  dynamics.  I 
am  inclined  to  think,  from  my  own  observa 
tion  of  its  ways,  that  it  contains  the  germ 
of  perpetual  motion." 

"I  will  consider  your  suggestion,"  replied 
the  Idiot.  "Meanwhile,  let  us  consult  har 
moniously  together  on  the  original  point. 
Is  there  anything  in  this  music  cure,  and  is 
it  true  that  our  medical  schools  are  here 
after  to  have  conservatories  attached  to 
them,  in  which  aspiring  young  M.D's.  are 
to  be  taught  the  materia  musica  in  addition 
to  the  materia  medica  ?" 

"I  had  heard  of  no  such  idiotic  proposi 
tion/'  returned  the  Doctor.  "And  as  for 
the  music  cure,  I  don't  know  anything  about 
it;  haven't  heard  everybody  talking  about 
it ;  and  doubt  the  existence  of  any  such  thing 
outside  of  that  mysterious  realm  which  is 
bounded  by  the  four  corners  of  your  own 
bright  particular  cerebellum.  What  do  you 
mean  by  the  music  cure?" 

"Why,  the  papers  have  been  full  of  it 
148 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

lately,"  explained  the  Idiot.  "The  claim 
is  made  that  in  music  lies  the  panacea  for  all 
human  ills.  It  may  not  be  able  to  perform 
a  surgical  operation  like  that  which  is  re 
quired  for  the  removal  of  a  leg,  and  I  don't 
believe  even  Wagner  ever  composed  a  meas 
ure  that  could  be  counted  on  successfully 
to  eliminate  one's  vermiform  appendix  from 
its  chief  sphere  of  usefulness;  but  for  other 
things,  like  measles,  mumps,  the  snuffles, 
or  indigestion,  it  is  said  to  be  wonderfully 
efficacious.  What  I  wanted  to  find  out 
from  you  was  just  what  composers  were  best 
for  which  specific  troubles." 

"You'll  have  to  go  to  somebody  else  for 
the  information,"  said  the  Doctor.  "I 
never  heard  of  the  theory,  and,  as  I  said 
before,  I  don't  believe  anybody  else  has, 
barring  your  own  sweet  self." 

"I  have  seen  a  reference  to  it  somewhere," 
put  in  Mr.  Whitechoker,  coming  to  the 
Idiot's  rescue.  "As  I  recall  the  matter, 
some  lady  had  been  cured  of  a  nervous  af 
fection  by  a  scientific  application  of  some 
musical  poultice  or  other,  and  the  general 
149 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

expectation  seems  to  be  that  some  day  we 
shall  find  in  music  a  cure  for  all  our  human 
ills,  as  the  Idiot  suggests." 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Whitechoker,"  said  the 
Idiot,  gratefuly.  "I  saw  that  same  item 
and  several  others  besides,  and  I  have  only 
told  the  truth  when  I  say  that  a  large  num 
ber  of  people  are  considering  the  possibil 
ities  of  music  as  a  substitute  for  drugs.  I 
am  surprised  that  Dr.  Capsule  has  neither 
heard  nor  thought  about  it,  for  I  should 
think  it  would  prove  to  be  a  pleasant  and 
profitable  field  for  speculation.  Even  I,  who 
am  only  a  dabbler  in  medicine  and  know 
no  more  about  it  than  the  effects  of  certain 
remedies  upon  my  own  symptoms,  have 
noticed  that  music  of  a  certain  sort  is  a  sure 
emollient  for  nervous  conditions." 

"For  example?"  said  the  Doctor.  "Of 
course,  we  don't  doubt  your  word;  but  when 
a  man  makes  a  statement  based  upon  per 
sonal  observation  it  is  profitable  to  ask  him 
what  his  precise  experience  has  been,  merely 
for  the  purpose  of  adding  to  our  own  knowl- 
edge." 

150 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

"Well,"  said  the  Idiot,  "the  first  in 
stance  that  I  can  recall  is  that  of  a  Wagner 
opera  and  its  effects  upon  me.  For  a  num 
ber  of  years  I  suffered  a  great  deal  from 
insomnia.  I  could  not  get  two  hours  of  con 
secutive  sleep,  and  the  effect  of  my  suffer 
ings  was  to  make  me  nervous  and  irritable. 
Suddenly  somebody  presented  me  with  a 
couple  of  tickets  for  a  performance  of  'Par 
sifal/  and  I  went.  It  began  at  five  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon.  For  twenty  minutes  all 
went  serenely,  and  then  the  music  began  to 
work.  I  fell  into  a  deep  and  refreshing 
slumber.  The  intermission  came,  and  still 
I  slept  on.  Everybody  else  went  home, 
dressed  for  the  evening  part  of  the  perform 
ance,  had  their  dinner,  and  returned.  Still 
I  slept,  and  continued  so  to  do  until  mid 
night,  when  one  of  the  gentlemanly  ushers 
came  and  waked  me  up,  and  told  me  that  the 
performance  was  over.  I  rubbed  my  eyes, 
and  looked  about  me.  It  was  true — the 
great  auditorium  was  empty,  and  was  grad 
ually  darkening.  I  put  on  my  hat  and 
walked  out  refreshed,  having  slept  from 
151 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

five-twenty  until  twelve,  or  six  hours  and 
forty  minutes  straight.  That  was  one  in 
stance.  Two  weeks  later  I  went  again,  this 
time  to  hear  'Gotterdammerung.'  The  re 
sults  were  the  same,  only  the  effect  was 
instantaneous.  The  curtain  had  hardly  risen 
before  I  retired  to  the  little  ante-room  of 
the  box  our  party  occupied  and  dozed  off 
into  a  fathomless  sleep.  I  didn't  wake  up 
this  time  until  nine  o'clock  the  next  day, 
the  rest  of  the  party  having  gone  off  without 
awakening  me  as  a  sort  of  joke.  Clearly 
Wagner,  according  to  my  way  of  thinking, 
then,  deserves  to  rank  among  the  most 
effective  narcotics  known  to  modern  science. 
I  have  tried  all  sorts  of  other  things — sul- 
fonal,  trionel,  bromide  powders,  and  all  the 
rest,  and  not  one  of  them  produced  anything 
like  the  soporific  results  that  two  doses  of 
Wagner  brought  about  in  one  instant.  And, 
best  of  all,  there  was  no  reaction:  no  split 
ting  headache  or  shaky  hand  the  next  day, 
but  just  the  calm,  quiet,  contented  feeling 
that  goes  with  the  sense  of  having  got  com 
pletely  rested  up/' 

152 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

"You  run  a  dreadful  risk,  however,''  said 
the  Doctor,  with  a  sarcastic  smile.  "The 
Wagner  habit  is  a  terrible  thing  to  acquire, 
Mr.  Idiot." 

"That  may  be,"  said  the  Idiot;  "worse 
than  the  sulfonal  habit  by  a  great  deal,  I 
am  told;  but  I  am  in  no  danger  of  becoming 
a  victim  to  it  while  it  costs  from  five  to  seven 
dollars  a  dose.  In  addition  to  this  experi 
ence,  I  have  also  the  testimony  of  a  friend 
of  mine  who  was  cured  of  a  frightful  attack 
of  the  colic  by  Sullivan's  'Lost  Chord/ 
played  on  a  cornet.  He  had  spent  the  day 
down  at  Asbury  Park,  and  had  eaten  not 
wisely  but  too  copiously.  Among  other 
things  that  he  turned  loose  in  his  inner  man 
were  two  plates  of  lobster  salad,  a  glass  of 
fresh  cider,  and  a  saucerful  of  pistache  ice 
cream.  He  was  a  painter  by  profession, 
and  the  color  scheme  he  thus  introduced 
into  his  digestive  apparatus  was  too  much 
for  his  artistic  soul.  He  was  not  fitted  by 
temperament  to  assimilate  anything  quite 
so  strenuously  chromatic  as  that,  and,  as  a 
consequence,  shortly  after  he  had  retired  to 
153 


THE   GENIAL    IDIOT 

his  studio  for  the  night,  the  conflicting  tints 
began  to  get  in  their  deadly  work,  and  with 
in  two  hours  he  was  completely  doubled 
up.  The  pain  he  suffered  was  awful.  Ago 
ny  was  bliss  alongside  of  the  pangs  that 
now  afflicted  him,  and  all  the  palliatives  and 
pain-killers  known  to  man  were  tried  with 
out  avail,  and  then,  just  as  he  was  about  to 
give  himself  up  for  lost,  an  amateur  cor- 
netist  who  occupied  a  studio  on  the  floor 
above  began  to  play  the  'Lost  Chord/  A 
counter  -  pain  set  in  immediately.  At  the 
second  bar  of  the  'Lost  Chord'  the  awful 
pain  that  was  gradually  gnawing  away  at  his 
vitals  seemed  to  lose  its  poignancy  in  the 
face  of  the  greater  suffering,  and  physical 
relief  was  instant.  As  the  musician  pro 
ceeded,  the  internal  disorder  yielded  grad 
ually  to  the  external  and  finally  passed  away, 
entirely  leaving  him  so  far  from  prostrate 
that  by  1  A.M.  he  was  out  of  bed  and 
actually  girding  himself  with  a  shot-gun  and 
an  Indian  club  to  go  up-stairs  for  a  physical 
encounter  with  the  cornetist." 

"And  you  reason  from  this  that  Sullivan's 
154 


THE   GENIAL    IDIOT 

'Lost  Chord '  is  a  cure  for  cholera  morbus, 
eh?"  sneered  the  Doctor. 

"It  would  seem  so,"  said  the  Idiot. 
"  While  the  music  continued  my  friend  was  a 
well  man,  ready  to  go  out  and  fight  like  a 
warrior;  but  when  the  cornetist  stopped 
the  colic  returned,  and  he  had  to  fight  it  out 
in  the  old  way.  In  these  incidents  in  my 
own  experience  I  find  ample  justification 
for  my  belief,  and  that  of  others,  that  some 
day  the  music  cure  for  human  ailments  will 
be  recognized  and  developed  to  the  full. 
Families  going  off  to  the  country  for  the 
summer,  instead  of  taking  a  medicine-chest 
along  with  them,  will  be  provided  with  a  mu 
sic-box  with  cylinders  for  mumps,  measles, 
summer  complaint,  whooping-cough,  chick 
en-pox,  chills  and  fever,  and  all  the  other  ills 
the  flesh  is  heir  to.  Scientific  experiment 
will  demonstrate  before  long  just  what  com 
position  will  cure  specific  ills.  If  a  baby  has 
whooping-cough,  an  anxious  mother,  instead 
of  ringing  up  the  doctor,  will  go  to  the  piano 
and  give  the  child  a  dose  of  'Hiawatha/  If 
a  small  boy  goes  swimming  and  catches  a  cold 
n  155 


THE   GENIAL    IDIOT 

in  his  head  and  is  down  with  a  fever,  his 
nurse,  an  expert  on  the  accordion,  can  bring 
him  back  to  health  again  with  three  bars  of 
'  Under  the  Bamboo  Tree'  after  each  meal. 
Instead  of  dosing  the  kids  with  cod-liver  oil 
when  they  need  a  tonic,  they  will  be  set  to 
work  at  a  mechanical  piano  and  braced  up 
on  'Narcissus/  'There'll  Be  a  Hot  Time  in 
the  Old  Town  To-night'  will  become  an  ef 
fective  remedy  for  a  sudden  chill.  People 
suffering  from  sleeplessness  can  dose  them 
selves  back  to  normal  conditions  with  Wag 
ner  the  way  I  did.  Tchaikowski,  to  be  well 
shaken  before  taken,  will  be  an  effective 
remedy  for  a  torpid  liver,  and  the  man  or 
woman  who  suffers  from  lassitude  will  doubt 
less  find  in  the  lively  airs  of  our  two-step 
composers  an  efficient  tonic  to  bring  their 
vitality  up  to  a  high  standard  of  activity. 
Nothing  in  it?  Why,  Doctor,  there's  more 
in  it  that's  in  sight  to-day  that  is  promis 
ing  and  suggestive  of  great  things  in  the 
future  than  there  was  of  the  principle  of 
gravitation  in  the  rude  act  of  that  his 
toric  pippin  that  left  the  parent  tree 
156 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

and  swatted  Sir  Isaac  Newton  on  the 
nose." 

"And  the  drug  stores  will  be  driven  out 
of  business,  I  presume/'  said  the  Doctor. 

"No,"  said  the  Idiot.  "  They  will  sub 
stitute  music  for  drugs,  that  is  all.  Every 
man  who  can  afford  it  will  have  his  own 
medical  phonograph,  or  music-box,  and  the 
drug  stores  will  sell  cylinders  and  records 
for  them  instead  of  quinine,  carbonate  of 
soda,  squills,  paregoric,  and  other  nasty- 
tasting  things  they  have  now.  This  alone 
will  serve  to  popularize  sickness,  and,  in 
stead  of  being  driven  out  of  business,  their 
trade  will  pick  up." 

"And  the  doctor,  and  the  doctor's  gig, 
and  all  the  appurtenances  of  his  profession 
— what  becomes  of  them?"  demanded  the 
Doctor. 

"We'll  have  to  have  the  doctor  just  the 
same  to  prescribe  for  us,  only  he  will 
have  to  be  a  musician,  but  the  gig — 
I'm  afraid  that  will  have  to  go,"  said  the 
Idiot. 

"And  why,  pray?"  asked  the  Doctor. 
157 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

''Because  there  are  no  more  drugs,  must  the 
physician  walk?" 

"Not  at  all,"  said  the  Idiot.  "But  he'd 
be  better  equipped  if  he  drove  about  in  a 
piano-organ  or,  if  he  preferred,  an  auto  on  a 
steam-calliope." 


XIV 

HE    DEFENDS   CAMPAIGN   MPTTHODS 

"/^GOD-MORNING,  gentlemen,"  said 
\J(  the  Idiot,  cheerily,  as  he  entered  the 
breakfast-room.  "This  is  a  fine  Sunday 
morning  in  spite  of  the  gloom  into  which 
the  approaching  death  of  the  campaign 
should  plunge  us  all." 

"You  think  that,  do  you?"  observed  the 
Bibliomaniac.  "Well,  I  don't  agree  with 
you.  I  for  one  am  sick  and  tired  of  politics, 
and  it  will  be  a  great  relief  to  me  when  it  is 
all  over." 

"Dear  me,  what  a  blase  old  customer  you 
are,  Mr.  Bib,"  returned  the  Idiot.  "Do  you 
mean  to  say  that  a  Presidential  campaign 
does  not  keep  your  nerve-centres  in  a  con 
stant  state  of  pleasurable  titillation?  Why, 
159 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

to  me  it  is  what  a  bag  full  of  nuts  must  be  to 
a  squirrel.  I  fairly  gloat  over  these  quad 
rennial  political  campaigns  of  ours.  They 
are  to  me  among  the  most  exhilarating 
institutions  of  modern  life.  They  satisfy  all 
one's  zest  for  warfare  without  the  distressing 
shedding  of  blood  which  attends  real  war, 
and  regarded  from  the  standpoint  of  humor, 
I  know  of  nothing  that,  to  the  eye  of  an  or 
dinarily  keen  observer,  is  more  provocative 
of  good,  honest,  wholesome  mirth." 

"I  don't  see  it,"  said  Mr.  Bib.  "To  my 
mind,  the  average  political  campaign  is  just 
a  vulgar  scrap  in  which  men  who  ought  to 
know  better  descend  to  all  sorts  of  despicable 
trickery  merely  to  gain  the  emoluments  of 
office.  This  quest  for  the  flesh-pots  of  pol 
itics,  so  far  from  being  diverting,  is,  to  my 
notion,  one  of  the  most  deplorable  exhibi 
tions  of  human  weakness  that  modern  civ 
ilization,  so  called,  has  produced.  A  couple 
of  men  are  put  up  for  the  most  dignified  of 
fice  known  to  the  world — both  are  gentle 
men  by  birth  and  education,  men  of  honor, 
men  who,  you  would  think,  would  scorn 
100 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

baseness  as  they  hate  poison — and  then  what 
happens?  For  three  weary  months  the  fol 
lowers  of  each  attack  the  character  and  in 
telligence  of  the  other  until,  if  you  really 
believed  what  was  said  of  either,  neither  in 
your  estimation  would  have  a  shred  of  rep 
utation  left.  Is  that  either  diverting  or  ele 
vating  or  educational  or,  indeed,  anything 
but  deplorable?'' 

"It's  perfectly  fine,"  said  the  Idiot,  "to 
think  that  we  have  men  in  the  country  whose 
characters  are  such  that  they  can  stand 
four  months  of  such  a  test.  That's  what  I 
find  elevating  in  it.  When  a  man  who  is 
nominated  for  the  Presidency  in  June  or 
July  can  emerge  in  November  unscathed  in 
spite  of  the  minute  scrutiny  to  which  him 
self  and  his  record  and  the  record  of  his 
sisters  and  his  cousins  and  his  aunts  have 
been  subjected,  it's  time  for  the  American 
rooster  to  get  upon  his  hind  legs  and  give 
three  cheers  for  himself  and  the  people  to 
whom  he  belongs.  Even  old  Diogenes,  who 
spent  his  life  looking  for  an  honest  man, 
would  have  to  admit  every  four  years  that 
161 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

he  could  spot  him  instantly  by  merely  com 
ing  to  this  country  and  taking  his  choice 
from  among  the  several  candidates." 

"You  must  admit,  however,"  said  the 
Bibliomaniac,  "that  a  man  with  an  honor 
able  name  must  find  it  unpleasant  to  have 
such  outrageous  stories  told  of  him." 

"Not  a  bit  of  it,"  laughed  the  Idiot.  "The 
more  outrageous  the  better.  For  instance, 
when  The  Sunday  Jigger  comes  out  with  a 
four-page  revelation  of  your  Republican 
candidate's  past,  in  which  we  learn  how,  in 
1873,  he  put  out  the  eyes  of  a  maiden  aunt 
with  a  red-hot  poker,  and  stabbed  a  negro 
cook  in  the  back  with  a  skewer,  because  she 
would  not  permit  him  to  put  rat-poison  in 
his  grandfather's  coffee,  you  know  perfectly 
well  that  that  story  has  been  put  forth  for 
the  purpose  of  turning  the  maiden  aunt, 
negro,  and  grandfather  votes  against  him. 
You  know  well  enough  that  he  either  never 
did  what  is  charged  against  him,  or  at  least 
that  the  story  is  greatly  exaggerated — he 
may  have  stuck  a  pin  into  the  cook,  and 
played  some  boyish  trick  upon  some  of  his 
162 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

relatives — but  the  story  on  the  face  of  it  is 
untrue  and  therefore  harmless.  Similarly 
with  the  Democratic  candidate.  When  the 
Daily  Flim  Flam  asserts  that  he  believes 
that  the  working-man  is  entitled  to  four  cents 
a  day  for  sixteen  hours'  work,  and  has  re 
peatedly  avowed  that  bread  and  water  is  the 
proper  food  for  motormen,  everybody  with 
common-sense  realizes  at  once  that  even  the 
Flim  Flam  doesn't  believe  the  story.  It 
hurts  no  one,  therefore,  and  provokes  a 
great  deal  of  innocent  mirth.  You  don't 
yourself  believe  that  last  yarn  about  the 
Prohibition  candidate,  do  you?" 

"I  haven't  heard  any  yarn  about  him," 
said  the  Bibliomaniac. 

"That  he  is  the  owner  of  a  brewery  up  in 
Rochester,  and  backs  fifteen  saloons  and  a 
pool-room  in  New  York?"  said  the  Idiot. 

"Of  course  I  don't,"  said  the  Biblio 
maniac.  "Who  does?" 

"Nobody,"  said  the  Idiot;  "and  therefore 
the  story  doesn't  hurt  the  man's  reputation 
a  bit,  or  interfere  with  his  chances  of  elec 
tion  in  the  least.  Take  that  other  story 
163 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

published  in  a  New  York  newspaper  that  on 
the  10th  of  last  August  Thompson  Bondi- 
feller's  yacht  was  seen  anchored  for  six- 
hours  off  Tom  Watson's  farm,  two  hundred 
miles  from  the  sea,  and  that  the  Populist 
candidate,  disguised  as  a  bank  president, 
went  off  with  the  trust  magnate  on  a  cruise 
from  Atlanta,  Georgia,  to  Oklahoma — you 
don't  believe  that,  do  you?" 

"It's  preposterous  on  the  face  of  it,"  said 
Mr.  Bib. 

"Well,  that's  the  way  the  thing  works," 
said  the  Idiot.  "And  that's  why  I  think 
there's  a  lot  of  bully  good  fun  to  be  had  out 
of  a  political  campaign.  I  love  anything 
that  arouses  the  imagination  of  a  people  too 
much  given  over  to  the  pursuit  of  the  cold, 
hard  dollar.  If  it  wasn't  for  these  quad 
rennial  political  campaigns  to  spur  the  fancy 
on  to  glorious  flights  we  should  become  a 
dull,  hard,  prosaic,  unimaginative  people, 
and  that  would  be  death  to  progress.  No 
people  can  progress  that  lacks  imagination. 
Politics  is  an  emery-wheel  that  keeps  our 
wits  polished." 

164 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

"Well,  granting  all  that  you  say  is  true/' 
said  the  Bibliomaniac,  "the  intrusion  upon 
a  man's  private  life  that  politics  makes  pos 
sible — surely  you  cannot  condone  that/7 

The  Idiot  laughed. 

"That's  the  strangest  argument  of  all/' 
he  said.  "The  very  idea  of  a  man  who  de 
liberately  chooses  public  life  as  the  sphere 
of  his  activities  seeking  to  hide  behind  his 
private  life  is  preposterous.  The  fellow 
who  does  that,  Mr.  Bib,  wants  to  lead  a 
double  life,  and  that  is  reprehensible.  The 
man  who  offers  himself  to  the  people  hasn't 
any  business  to  tie  a  string  to  any  part  of 
him.  If  Jim  Jones  wants  to  be  President 
of  the  United  States  the  people  who  are 
asked  to  put  him  there  have  a  right  to  know 
what  kind  of  a  person  Jim  Jones  is  in  his 
dressing-gown  and  slippers.  If  he  beats  his 
mother-in-law,  and  eats  asparagus  with  the 
sugar-tongs,  and  doesn't  pay  his  grocer, 
the  public  have  a  right  to  know  it.  If  he 
has  children,  the  voters  are  perfectly  justified 
in  asking  what  kind  of  children  they  are, 
since  the  voters  own  the  White  House  fur- 
165 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

niture,  and  if  the  Jim  Jones  children  wipe 
their  feet  on  plush  chairs,  and  shoot  holes 
in  the  paintings  with  their  bean-snappers 
and  putty-blowers,  Uncle  Sam,  as  a  landlord 
and  owner  of  the  premises,  ought  to  be  warned 
beforehand.  You  wouldn't  yourself  rent  a 
furnished  residence  to  a  man  whose  children 
were  known  to  have  built  bonfires  in  the 
parlor  of  their  last  known  home,  would 
you?" 

"I  think  not/'  smiled  the  Bibliomaniac. 

"Then  you  cannot  complain  if  Uncle  Sam 
is  equally  solicitous  about  the  personal  para 
phernalia  of  the  man  who  asks  to  occupy 
his  little  cottage  on  the  Potomac,"  said  the 
Idiot.  "So  it  happens  that  when  a  man 
runs  for  the  Presidency  the  persons  who 
intrude  upon  his  private  life,  as  you  put  it, 
are  conferring  a  real  service  upon  their  fel 
low-citizens.  When  I  hear  from  an  authen 
tic  source  that  Mr.  So-and-So,  the  candidate 
of  the  Thisorthatic  party  for  the  Presidency, 
is  married  to  an  estimable  lady  who  refers 
to  all  Frenchmen  as  parricides,  because  she 
believes  they  have  come  from  Paris,  I  have 
166 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

a  right  to  consider  whether  or  not  I  wish  to 
vote  to  place  such  a  lady  at  the  head  of  my 
official  table  at  White  House  banquets,  where 
she  is  likely,  sooner  or  later,  to  encounter 
the  French  ambassador,  and  the  man  who 
gives  me  the  necessary  information  is  doing 
me  a  service.  You  may  say  that  the  lady 
is  not  running  for  a  public  office,  and  that, 
therefore,  she  should  be  protected  from  pub 
lic  scrutiny,  but  that  is  a  fallacy.  A  man's 
wife  is  his  better  half  and  his  children  are 
a  good  part  of  the  remainder,  and  what 
they  do  or  don't  do  becomes  a  matter  of 
legitimate  public  concern.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  a  public  man  can  have  no  private 
life." 

"Then  you  approve  of  these  stories  of 
candidates7  cousins,  the  prattling  anecdotes 
of  their  grandchildren,  these  paragraphs 
narrating  the  doings  of  their  uncles-in-law, 
and  all  that?"  sneered  the  Bibliomaniac. 

" Certainly,  I  do,"  said  the  Idiot.  "When 
I  hear  that  Judge  Torkin's  grandson,  aged 
four,  has  come  out  for  his  grandfather's  op 
ponent  I  am  delighted,  and  give  the  judge 
167 


THE   GENIAL    IDIOT 

credit  for  the  independent  spirit  which 
heredity  accounts  for;  when  it  is  told  to 
me  that  Tom  Watson's  uncle  is  going  to  vote 
for  Tom  because  he  knows  Tom  doesn't  be 
lieve  what  he  says,  I  am  almost  inclined  to 
vote  for  him  as  the  uncle  of  his  country; 
when  I  hear  that  Debs's  son,  aged  three,  has 
punched  his  daddy  in  the  eye,  on  general 
principles  I  feel  that  there's  a  baby  I  want 
in  the  White  House;  and  when  it  is  told  to 
me  that  the  Prohibition  candidate's  third 
cousin  has  just  been  cured  of  delirium  tre- 
mens,  I  feel  that  possibly  there  is  a  family 
average  there  that  may  be  struck  to  the  ad 
vantage  of  the  country." 

"Say,  Mr.  Idiot,"  put  in  the  Poet,  at  this 
point,  "who  are  you  going  to  vote  for,  any 
how?" 

"Don't  ask  me,"  laughed  the  Idiot,  "I 
don't  know  yet.  I  admire  all  the  candidates 
personally  very  much." 

"But  what  are  your  politics — Republican 
or  Democratic?"  asked  the  Lawyer. 

"Oh,  that's  different,"  said  the  Idiot, 
"I'm  a  Sammycrat." 

168 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

"A  what?"  cried  the  Idiot's  fellow-board 
ers  in  unison. 

"A  Sammycrat,"  said  the  Idiot.  "I'm 
for  Uncle  Sam  every  time.  He's  the  best 


XV 

ON   SHORT  COURSES   AT   COLLEGE 

MR.  PEDAGOG  threw  down  the  morning 
paper  with  an  ejaculation  of  impa 
tience. 

"I  don't  know  what  on  earth  we  are  coin 
ing  to!"  he  said,  stirring  his  coffee  vigorously. 
"  These  new-fangled  notions  of  our  college 
presidents  seem  to  me  to  be  destructive  in 
their  tendency." 

"What's  up  now?  Somebody  flunked  a 
football  team?"  asked  the  Idiot. 

"No,  I  quite  approve  of  that,"  said  Mr. 
Pedagog;  "but  this  matter  of  reducing  the 
college  course  from  four  to  two  years  is  so 
radical  a  suggestion  that  I  tremble  for  the 
future  of  education." 

"Oh,  I  wouldn't  if  I  were  you,  Mr.  Peda- 
170 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

gog,"  said  the  Idiot.  "Your  trembling 
won't  help  matters  any,  and,  after  all,  when 
men  like  President  Eliot  of  Harvard  and 
Dr.  Butler  of  Columbia  recommend  the  short 
course  the  idea  must  have  some  virtue." 

"Well,  if  it  stops  where  they  do  I  don't 
suppose  any  great  harm  will  be  done,"  said 
Mr.  Pedagog.  "But  what  guarantee  have 
we  that  fifty  years  from  now  some  successor 
to  these  gentlemen  won't  propose  a  one-year 
course?" 

"None,"  said  the  Idiot.  "Fact  is,  we 
don't  want  any  guarantee  —  or  at  least  I 
don't.  They  can  turn  colleges  into  bicycle 
academies  fifty  years  from  now  for  all  I  care. 
I  expect  to  be  doing  time  in  some  other 
sphere  fifty  years  from  now,  so  why  should 
I  vex  my  soul  about  it?" 

"That's  rather  a  selfish  view,  isn't  it,  Mr. 
Idiot  ?"  asked  Mr.  Whitechoker.  "  Don't  you 
wish  to  see  the  world  getting  better  and  bet 
ter  every  day?" 

"No,"  said  the  Idiot.  "It's  so  mighty 
good  as  it  is,  this  bully  old  globe,  that  I  hate 
to  see  people  monkeying  with  it  all  the  time. 
171 


THE   GENIAL    IDIOT 

Of  course,  I  wasn't  around  it  in  the  old  clays, 
but  I  don't  believe  the  world's  any  better  off 
now  than  it  was  in  the  days  of  Adam." 

"Great  Heavens!  What  a  thing  to  say!" 
cried  the  Poet. 

"Well,  I've  said  it,"  rejoined  the  Idiot. 
"What  has  it  all  come  to,  anyhow — all  this 
business  of  man's  trying  to  better  the  world? 
It's  just  added  to  his  expenses,  that's  all.  And 
what  does  he  get  out  of  it  that  Adam  didn't 
get?  Money?  Adam  didn't  need  money. 
He  had  his  garden  truck,  his  tailor,  his  fuel 
supply,  his  amusements — all  the  things  we 
have  to  pay  cash  for — right  in  his  backyard. 
All  he  had  to  do  was  to  reach  out  and  take 
what  we  fellows  nowadays  have  to  toil  eight 
or  ten  hours  a  day  to  earn.  Literature? 
His  position  was  positively  enviable  as  far 
as  literature  is  concerned.  He  had  the  situa 
tion  in  his  own  hands.  He  wasn't  prevented 
from  writing  'Hamlet,'  as  I  am,  because 
somebody  else  had  already  done  it.  He 
didn't  have  to  sit  up  till  midnight  seven 
nights  a  week  to  keep  up  with  the  historical 
novels  of  the  day.  Art?  There  were  pict- 
172 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

ures  on  every  side  of  him,  splendid  in  color, 
instinct  of  life,  perfect  in  their  technique,  and 
all  from  the  hand  of  that  first  of  Old  Masters, 
Nature  herself.  He  hadn't  any  Rosa  Bon- 
heurs  or  Landseers  on  his  farm,  but  he  could 
get  all  the  cow  pictures  he  wanted  from  the 
back  window  of  his  bungalow  without  their 
costing  him  a  cent.  Drama?  Life  was  a 
succession  of  rising  curtains  to  Adam,  and 
while,  of  course,  he  had  the  errant  Eve  to 
deal  with,  the  garden  was  free  from  Notori 
ous  Mrs.  Ebbsmiths,  there  wasn't  a  Magda 
from  one  end  of  the  apple-orchard  to  the 
other,  and  not  a  First,  Second,  or  Third 
Mrs.  Tanqueray  in  sight.  Music  ?  The  woods 
were  full  of  it — the  orioles  singing  their  can 
tatas,  the  nightingales  warbling  their  con 
certos,  the  eagles  screeching  out  their  Wag- 
nerian  measures,  the  blue  jays  piping  their 
intermezzos,  and  no  Italian  organ-grinders 
doing  De  Koven  under  his  window  from 
one  year's  end  to  the  other.  Gorry !  I  wish 
sometimes  Adam  had  known  a  good  thing 
when  he  had  it  and  hadn't  broken  the  mono 


logue." 


173 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

"The  what?"  demanded  Mr.  Brief. 

"The  monologue,"  repeated  the  Idiot. 
"The  one  commandment.  If  ten  command 
ments  make  a  decalogue,  one  commandment 
makes  a  monologue,  doesn't  it?" 

"You're  a  philologist  and  a  half,"  said  the 
Bibliomaniac,  with  a  laugh. 

"No  credit  to  me,"  returned  the  Idiot. 
"A  ten  years'  residence  in  this  boarding- 
house  has  resulted  practically  in  my  having 
enjoyed  a  diet  of  words.  I  have  literally 
eaten  syllables — " 

"I  hope  you  haven't  eaten  any  of  your 
own,"  said  the  Bibliomaniac.  "That  would 
ruin  the  digestion  of  an  ostrich." 

"That's  true  enough,"  said  the  Idiot. 
"Rich  foods  will  overthrow  any  kind  of  a 
digestion  in  the  long  run.  But  to  come  back 
to  the  college  tendencies,  Mr.  Pedagog,  it  is 
my  belief  that  in  this  short-course  business 
we  haven't  more  than  started.  It's  my  firm 
conviction  that  some  day  we  shall  find  uni 
versities  conferring  degrees  'while  you  wait,' 
as  it  were.  A  man,  for  instance,  visiting 
Boston  for  a  week  will  some  day  be  able  to 
174 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

run  out  to  Harvard,  pay  a  small  fee,  pass 
an  examination,  and  get  a  bachelor's  degree, 
as  a  sort  of  souvenir  of  his  visit;  another 
chap,  coming  to  New  York  for  a  brief  holi 
day,  instead  of  stealing  a  spoon  from  the 
Waldorf  for  his  collection  of  souvenirs,  can 
ring  up  Columbia  College,  tell  'em  all  he 
knows  over  the  wire,  and  get  a  sheepskin 
by  return  mail;  while  at  New  Haven  you'll 
be  able  to  stop  off  at  the  railway  station  and 
buy  your  B.  A.  at  the  lunch-counter — they 
rnay  even  go  so  far  as  to  let  the  newsboys 
on  the  train  confer  them  without  making 
the  applicant  get  off  at  all.  Then  the  golden 
age  of  education  will  begin.  There'll  be 
more  college  graduates  to  the  square  inch 
than  you  can  now  find  in  any  ten  square 
miles  in  Massachusetts,  and  our  professional 
men,  instead  of  beginning  the  long  wait  at 
thirty,  will  be  in  full  practice  at  twenty- 
one." 

"That  is  the  limit!"  ejaculated  Mr.  Brief. 

"Oh,  no  indeed,"  said  the  Idiot.  " There's 
another  step.  That's  the  gramophone  course, 
in  which  a  man  won't  have  to  leave  home  at 
175 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

all  to  secure  a  degree  from  any  college  he 
chooses.  By  tabulating  his  knowledge  and 
dictating  it  into  a  gramophone  he  can  send 
the  cylinder  to  the  university  authorities, 
have  it  carefully  examined,  and  receive  his 
degree  on  a  postal-card  within  forty-eight 
hours.  That  strikes  me  as  being  the  limit, 
unless  some  of  the  ten-cent  magazines  offer 
an  LL.  D.  degree  with  a  set  of  Kipling  and  a 
punching-bag  as  a  premium  for  a  one  year's 
subscription." 

"  And  you  think  that  will  be  a  good  thing?" 
demanded  the  Bibliomaniac. 

"No,  I  didn't  say  so,"  said  the  Idiot. 
"In  one  respect  I  think  it  would  be  a  very 
bad  thing.  Such  a  method  would  involve 
the  utter  destruction  of  the  football  and 
rowing  seasons,  unless  the  universities  took 
some  decided  measures  looking  toward  the 
preservation  of  these  branches  of  undergrad 
uate  endeavor.  It  is  coming  to  be  recog 
nized  as  a  fact  that  a  man  can  be  branded 
with  the  mark  of  intellectual  distinction  in 
absentia,  as  the  Aryan  tribes  used  to  put  it, 
but  a  man  can't  win  athletic  prowess  with- 
176 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

out  giving  the  matter  attention  in  propria 
persona,  to  adopt  the  phraseology  of  the 
days  of  Uncle  Remus.  You  can't  stroke  a 
crew  by  mail  any  more  than  you  can  stroke 
a  cat  by  freight,  and  it  doesn't  make  any 
difference  how  wonderful  he  may  be  physical 
ly,  a  Yale  man  selling  dry-goods  out  in  Ne 
braska  can't  play  football  with  a  Harvard 
student  employed  in  a  grocery  store  at  New 
Orleans  by  telephone.  You  can  do  it  with 
chess,  but  not  with  basket  ball.  There  are 
some  things  in  university  life  that  require 
the  individual  attention  of  the  student. 
Unless  something  is  done  by  our  colleges, 
then,  to  care  for  this  very  important  branch 
of  their  service  to  growing  youth,  the  new 
scheme  will  meet  with  much  opposition  from 
the  public." 

"What  would  you,  in  your  infinite  wis 
dom,  suggest?"  asked  the  Doctor.  "The 
wise  man,  when  he  points  out  an  objection 
to  another's  plans,  suggests  a  remedy." 

"That's  easy,"  said  the  Idiot.  "I  should 
have  what  I  should  call  residential  terms  for 
those  who  wished  to  avail  themselves  of 
177 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

athletic  training  under  academic  auspices. 
The  leading  colleges  could  announce  that 
they  were  open  for  business  from  October  1st 
to  December  1st  for  the  study  of  the  Theory 
and  Practice  of  Gridirony — 

" Excuse  me/'  said  Mr.  Pedagog.  "But 
what  was  that  word?" 

"Gridirony,"  observed  the  Idiot.  "That 
would  be  my  idea  of  the  proper  academic 
designation  of  a  course  in  football,  a  game 
which  is  played  on  the  gridiron.  It  is  more 
euphonious  than  goalology  or  leather  sphe 
roids,  which  have  suggested  themselves  to 
me." 

"Go  on!"  sighed  the  Doctor.  "As  a 
word-mint  you  are  unrivalled." 

"There  could  be  a  term  in  baseballistics; 
another  in  lacrossetics ;  a  fourth  in  aquatics, 
and  so  on  all  through  the  list  of  intercollegiate 
sports,  each  in  the  season  best  suited  to  its 
completest  development." 

"It's  not  a  bad  idea,  that,"  said  Mr.  Ped 
agog.  "A  parent  sending  his  boy  to  college 
under  such  conditions  would  have  a  fairly 
good  idea  of  what  the  lad  was  doing.  As 
178 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

matters  are  now,  it's  a  question  whether 
the  undergraduate  acquires  as  much  of  Eu 
ripides  as  he  does  of  Travis,  and  as  far  as  I 
can  find  out  there  are  more  Yale  men  around 
who  know  all  about  Bob  Cook  and  Hinkey 
than  there  are  who  are  versed  in  Chaucer, 
Milton,  and  Shakespeare." 

"But  what  have  these  things  to  do  with 
the  arts?"  asked  Mr.  Whitechoker.  "A 
man  may  know  all  about  golf,  base  and  foot 
ball  and  rowing,  and  yet  be  far  removed 
from  the  true  ideals  of  culture.  You  couldn't 
give  a  man  a  B.  A.  degree  because  he  was  a 
perfect  quarter  rush,  or  whatever  else  it  is 
they  call  him." 

"That's  a  good  criticism,"  observed  the 
Idiot,  "and  there  isn't  a  doubt  in  my  mind 
that  the  various  faculties  of  our  various 
colleges  will  meet  it  by  the  establishment 
of  a  new  degree  which  shall  cover  the 
case." 

"Again  I  would  suggest  that  it  is  up  to 

you  to  cover  that  point,"  said  Mr.  Brief. 

"You  have  outlined  a  pretty  specific  scheme. 

The  notion  that  you  haven't   brains  enough 

179 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

to  invent  a  particular  degree  is  to  my  mind 
preposterous." 

"Right,"  said  the  Idiot.  "And  I  think  I 
have  it.  When  I  was  in  college  they  used 
to  confer  a  degree  upon  chaps  who  didn't 
quite  succeed  in  passing  their  finals  which 
was  known  as  A.  B.  Sp.  Gr. — they  were 
mostly  fellows  who  had  played  more  foot 
ball  than  Herodotus  who  got  them.  The 
Sp.  Gr.  meant  'by  special  favor  of  the  Fac 
ulty/  I  think  I  should  advocate  that,  only 
changing  its  meaning  to  'Great  Sport." 

Mr.  Pedagog  laughed  heartily.  "You  are 
a  great  Idiot,"  he  said.  "I  wonder  they 
don't  call  you  to  a  full  professorship  of  idiocy 
somewhere." 

"I  guess  it's  because  they  know  I  wouldn't 
go,"  said  the  Idiot. 

"Did  you  say  you  were  in  college  ever?" 
sneered  the  Bibliomaniac,  rising  from  the 
table. 

"Yes,"  said  the  Idiot.  "I  went  to  Co 
lumbia  for  two  weeks  in  the  early  nineties. 
I  got  a  special  A.  B.  at  the  beginning  of  the 
third  week  for  my  proficiency  in  sciolism 
180 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

and  horseplay.  I  used  a  pony  in  an  exam 
ination  and  stuck  too  closely  to  the  text." 

"You  talk  like  it,"  snapped  the  Biblio 
maniac. 

"Thank  you,"  returned  the  Idiot,  suavely. 
"I  ought  to.  I  was  one  of  the  few  men  in 
my  class  who  really  earned  his  degree  by 
persistent  effort." 


XVI 

THE  HORSE   SHOW 

"T  SUPPOSE,   Mr.   Idiot,"  observed  Mr. 

A  Brief,  as  the  Idiot  took  his  accustomed 
place  at  the  breakfast-table,  "that  you  have 
been  putting  in  a  good  deal  of  your  time 
this  week  at  the  Horse  Show?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  Idiot,  "I  was  there  every 
night  it  was  open.  I  go  to  all  the  shows — 
Horse,  Dog,  Baby,  Flower,  Electrical  —  it 
doesn't  matter  what.  It's  first-rate  fun." 

"Pretty  fine  lot  of  horses,  this  year?" 
asked  the  Doctor. 

"Don't  know,"  said  the  Idiot.  "I  heard 
there  were  some  there,  but  I  didn't  see  'em." 

"What?"  cried  the  Doctor.  "Went  to 
the  Horse  Show  and  didn't  see  the  horses?" 

"No,"  said  the  Idiot.     "Why  should  I? 

1S2 


THE    GENIAL    IDIOT 

I  don't  know  a  cob  from  a  lazy  back.  Of 
course  I  know  that  the  four-legged  beast 
that  goes  when  you  say  get  ap  is  a  horse,  but 
beyond  that  my  equine  education  has  been 
neglected.  I  can  see  all  the  horses  I  want 
to  look  at  on  the  street,  anyhow." 

"Then  what  in  thunder  do  you  go  to  the 
Horse  Show  for?"  demanded  the  Biblio 
maniac.  "To  sleep?" 

"No,"  rejoined  the  Idiot.  "It's  too  noisy 
for  that.  I  go  to  see  the  people.  People 
are  far  more  interesting  to  me  than  horses, 
and  I  get  more  solid  fun  out  of  seeing  the 
nabobs  go  through  their  paces  than  could 
be  got  out  of  a  million  nags  of  high  degree 
kicking  up  their  heels  in  the  ring.  If  they'd 
make  the  horses  do  all  sorts  of  stunts,  it 
might  be  different,  but  they  don't.  They 
show  you  the  same  old  stuff  year  in  and 
year  out,  and  things  that  you  can  see  al 
most  any  fine  day  in  the  Park  during  the 
season.  You  and  I  know  that  a  four-horse 
team  can  pull  a  tally-ho  coach  around  with 
out  breaking  its  collective  neck.  We  know 
that  two  horses  harnessed  together  fore  and 
183 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

aft  instead  of  abreast  are  called  a  tandem, 
and  can  drag  a  cart  on  two  wheels  and  about 
a  mile  high  a  reasonable  distance  without 
falling  dead.  There  isn't  anything  new  or 
startling  in  their  performance,  and  why  any 
body  should  pay  to  see  them  doing  the  com 
monplace,  every-day  act  I  don't  know.  It 
isn't  as  if  they  had  a  lot  of  thoroughbreds 
on  exhibition  who  could  sit  down  at  a  table 
and  play  a  round  of  bridge  whist  or  poker. 
That  would  be  worth  seeing.  So  would  a 
horse  that  could  play  'Cavalleria  Rusticana' 
on  the  piano,  but  when  it  comes  to  dragging 
a  hansom -cab  or  a  grocery -wagon  around 
the  tanbark,  why,  it  seems  to  me  to  lack 
novelty." 

"The  idea  of  a  horse  playing  bridge  whist !" 
jeered  the  Bibliomaniac.  "What  a  prepos 
terous  proposition!" 

"Well,  I've  seen  fellows  with  less  sense 
than  the  average  horse  make  a  pretty  good 
stab  at  it  at  the  club,"  said  the  Idiot.  " Per 
haps  my  suggestion  is  extreme,  but  I  put  it 
that  way  merely  to  emphasize  my  point. 
IVe  seen  an  educated  pig  play  cards,  though, 
184 


THE    GENIAL    IDIOT 

and  I  don't  see  why  they  can't  put  the  horse 
through  very  much  the  same  course  of  treat 
ment  and  teach  him  to  do  something  that 
would  make  him  more  of  an  object  of  in 
terest  when  he  has  his  week  of  glory.  I  don't 
care  what  it  is  as  long  as  it  is  out  of  the 
ordinary." 

"There  is  nothing  in  the  world  that  is 
more  impressive  than  a  fine  horse  in  action," 
said  the  Doctor.  "What  you  suggest  would 
take  away  from  his  dignity  and  make  him  a 
freak." 

"I  didn't  say  it  wouldn't,"  rejoined  the 
Idiot.  "In  fact,  my  remarks  implied  that 
it  would.  You  don't  quite  understand  my 
meaning.  If  I  owned  a  stable  I'd  much 
rather  my  horses  didn't  play  bridge  whist, 
because,  in  all  probability,  they'd  be  sending 
into  the  house  at  all  hours  of  the  night  asking 
me  to  corne  over  to  the  barn  and  make  a 
fourth  hand.  It's  bad  enough  having  your 
neighbors  doing  that  sort  of  thing  without 
encouraging  your  horse  to  go  into  the  busi 
ness.  Nor  would  it  please  me  as  a  lover 
of  horseback-riding  to  have  a  mount  that 
185 


THE    GENIAL    IDIOT 

could  play  grand  opera  on  the  piano.  The 
chances  are  it  would  spoil  three  good  things 
— the  horse,  the  piano,  and  the  opera — but 
if  I  were  getting  up  a  show  and  asking  people 
from  all  over  the  country  to  pay  good  money 
to  get  into  it,  then  I  should  want  just  such 
things.  In  the  ordinary  daily  pursuits  of 
equine  life  the  horse  suits  me  just  as  he  is, 
but  for  the  extraordinary  requirements  of 
an  exhibition  he  lacks  diverting  qualities. 
He's  more  solemn  than  a  play  by  Sudermann 
or  Blanketty  Bjornsen;  he  is  as  lacking  in 
originality  as  a  comic-opera  score  by  Sir 
Reginald  de  Bergerac,  and  his  drawing  pow 
ers,  outside  of  cab- work,  as  far  as  I  am 
concerned,  are  absolutely  nil.  A  horse  that 
can  draw  a  picture  I'd  travel  miles  to  see. 
A  horse  that  can't  draw  anything  but  a  T- 
cart  or  an  ice-wagon  hasn't  two  cents'  worth 
of  interest  in  my  eyes." 

"But  can't  you  see  the  beauty  in  the  ac 
tion  of  a  horse?"  demanded  the  Doctor. 

"It  all  depends  on  his  actions,"  said  the 
Idiot.  "I've  seen  horses  whose  actions  were 
highly  uncivilized." 

186 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

"I  mean  his  form — not  his  behavior/'  said 
the  Doctor. 

"Well,  I've  never  understood  enough 
about  horses  to  speak  intelligently  on  that 
point/'  observed  the  Idiot.  "It's  incom 
prehensible  to  me  how  your  so-called  judges 
reason.  If  a  horse  trots  along  hiking  his 
fore-legs  'way  up  in  the  air  as  if  he  were 
grinding  an  invisible  hand-organ  with  both 
feet,  people  rave  over  his  high-stepping  and 
call  him  all  sorts  of  fine  names.  But  if  he 
does  the  same  thing  with  his  hind-legs  they 
call  it  springhalt  or  stringhalt,  or  something 
of  that  kind,  and  set  him  down  as  a  beastly 
old  plug.  The  scheme  seems  to  me  to  be 
inconsistent,  and  if  I  were  a  horse  I'm  blessed 
if  I  think  I'd  know  what  to  do.  How  a 
thing  can  be  an  accomplishment  in  front 
and  a  blemish  behind  is  beyond  me,  but 
there  is  the  fact.  They  give  a  blue  ribbon 
to  the  front-hiker  and  kick  the  hind-hiker 
out  of  the  show  altogether — the}7  wouldn't 
even  pin  a  Bryan  button  on  his  breast." 

"I  fancy  a  baby  show  is  about  your  size," 
said  the  Doctor. 

'3  187 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

" Well— yes,"  said  the  Idiot,  "I  guess  per 
haps  you  are  right,  as  far  as  the  exhibit  is 
concerned.  There's  something  almost  hu 
man  about  a  baby,  and  it's  the  human  ele 
ment  always  that  takes  hold  of  me.  It's 
the  human  element  in  the  Horse  Show  that 
takes  me  and  most  other  people  as  well. 
Fact  is,  so  many  go  to  see  the  people  and  so 
few  to  see  the  horses  that  I  have  an  idea 
that  some  day  they'll  have  it  with  only  one 
horse — just  enough  of  a  nag  to  enable  them 
to  call  it  a  Horse  Show  —  and  pay  proper 
attention  to  the  real  things  that  make  it  a 
success  even  now." 

The  Doctor  sniffed  contemptuously. 
"What  factors  in  your  judgment  contribute 
most  to  the  success  of  the  Horse  Show?"  he 
asked. 

"Duds  chiefly,"  said  the  Idiot,  "and  the 
people  who  are  inside  of  them.  If  there 
were  a  law  passed  requiring  every  woman 
who  goes  to  the  Horse  Show  to  wear  a  sim 
ple  gown  in  order  not  to  scare  the  horses, 
ninety  per  cent,  of  'ern  would  stay  at  home, 
and  all  the  blue-ribbon  steeds  in  creation 
188 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

couldn't  drag  them  to  the  Garden — and  no 
body  'd  blame  them  for  it,  either.  Similarly 
with  the  men.  You  don't  suppose  for  an 
instant,  do  you,  that  young  Hawkins  Van 
Bluevane  would  give  seven  cents  for  the 
Horse  Show  if  it  didn't  give  him  a  chance 
to  appear  every  afternoon  in  his  Carnegie 
plaid  waistcoat?" 

"That's  a  new  one  on  me/'  said  Mr. 
Brief.  "Is  there  such  a  thing  as  a  Car 
negie  plaid?" 

"It's  the  most  popular  that  ever  came  out 
of  Scotland,"  said  the  Idiot.  "It's  called 
the  Carnegie  because  of  the  size  of  the  checks. 
Then  there's  poor  old  Jimmie  Varickstreet 
— the  last  remnant  of  a  first  family — hasn't 
enough  money  to  keep  a  goat-wagon,  and 
couldn't  tell  you  the  difference  between  a 
saw-horse  and  a  crupper.  He  gives  up  his 
hall  bedroom  Horse-Show  week  and  lives  in 
the  place  day  and  night,  covering  up  the 
delinquencies  of  his  afternoon  and  evening 
clothes  with  a  long  yellow  ulster  with  buttons 
like  butter-saucers  distributed  all  over  his 
person — " 

189 


THE   GENIAL   IDIOT 

"Where  did  he  get  it,  if  he's  so  beastly 
poor?"  demanded  the  Lawyer. 

"He's  gone  without  food  and  drink  and 
clothes  that  don't  show.  He  has  scrimped 
and  saved,  and  denied  himself  for  a  year  to 
get  up  a  gaudy  shell  in  which  for  six  glorious 
days  to  shine  resplendent,"  said  the  Idiot. 
"Jimmie  lives  for  those  six  days,  and  as 
you  see  him  flitting  from  box  to  box  and 
realize  that  he  is  an  opulent  swell  for  six 
days  of  every  year,  and  a  poor,  down-trod 
den  exile  for  the  rest  of  the  time,  you  don't 
grudge  him  his  little  diversion  and  almost 
wish  you  had  sufficient  will  power  to  deny 
yourself  the  luxuries  and  some  of  the  ne 
cessities  of  life  as  well  to  get  a  coat  like  that. 
If  I  had  my  way  they'd  award  Jimmie  Var- 
ickstreet  at  least  an  honorable  mention  as 
one  of  the  most  interesting  exhibits  in  the 
whole  show. 

"And  there  are  plenty  of  others.  There's 
raw  material  enough  in  that  Horse  Show  to 
make  it  a  permanent  exhibition  if  the  man 
agers  would  only  get  together  and  lick  it  into 
shape.  As  a  sort  of  social  zoo  it  is  unsur- 
190 


THE    GENIAL    IDIOT 

passed,  and  why  they  don't  classify  the  va 
rious  sections  of  it  I  can't  see.  In  the  first 
place,  imagine  a  dozen  boxes  filled  with 
members  of  the  Four  Hundred,  men  and 
women  whose  names  have  become  house 
hold  words,  and  wearing  on  their  backs  gar 
ments  made  by  the  deft  fingers  of  the  great 
est  sartorial  artists  of  the  ages.  You  and  I 
walk  in  and  are  permitted  to  gaze  upon  this 
glorious  assemblage — the  American  nobility 
— in  its  gayest  environment.  Wouldn't  it 
interest  you  to  know  that  that  very  beau 
tiful  woman  in  the  lavender  creation,  wrap 
ped  up  in  a  billion-dollar  pearl  necklace,  is 
the  famous  Mrs.  Bollingt on- Jones,  who  holds 
the  divorce  championship  of  South  Dakota, 
and  that  those  two  chaps  who  are  talking 
to  her  so  vivaciously  are  two  of  her  ex-hus 
bands,  Van  Bibber  Beaconhill  and  'Tommy' 
Fitz  Greenwich?  Wouldn't  it  interest  you 
more  than  any  horse  in  the  ring  to  know  that 
her  gown  was  turned  out  at  Mrs.  Robert 
Bluefern's  Dud  Studio  at  a  cost  of  nine 
thousand  seven  hundred  and  fifty  dollars, 
hat  included?  Yet  the  programme  says 
191 


THE    GENIAL    IDIOT 

never  a  word  about  these  people.  Every 
horse  that  trots  in  has  a  number  so  that  you 
can  tell  who  and  what  and  why  he  is,  but 
there  are  no  placards  on  Mrs.  Bollington- 
Jones  by  which  she  may  be  identified. 

"Then  on  the  promenade,  there  is  Hooker 
Van  Winkle.  He's  out  on  bail  for  killing  a 
farmer  with  his  automobile  up  in  Connecticut 
somewhere.  There  is  young  Walston  Ad- 
dlepate,  whose  father  pays  him  a  salary  of 
twenty-five  thousand  dollars  a  year  for  keep 
ing  out  of  business.  There's  Jimson  Goose 
berry,  the  cotillon  leader,  whose  name  is  on 
every  lip  during  the  season.  Approaching 
you,  dressed  in  gorgeous  furs,  is  Mrs.  Din- 
ningforth  Winter,  who  declined  to  meet 
Prince  Henry  when  he  was  here,  because  of 
a  previous  engagement  to  dine  with  Tolby 
Robinson's  pet  monkey  just  in  from  a  cruise 
in  the  Indies.  And  so  it  goes.  The  place 
fairly  shrieks  with  celebrities  whose  names 
appear  in  the  Social  Register,  and  whose  pho 
tographs  in  pink  and  green  are  the  stock  in 
trade  of  the  Sunday  newspapers  of  saffron 
tendencies  everywhere  —  but  what  is  done 
192 


THE    GENIAL    IDIOT 

about  it?  Nothing  at  all.  They  come  and 
go,  conspicuous  but  unidentified,  and  wast 
ing  their  notoriety  on  the  desert  air.  It  is  a 
magnificent  opportunity  wasted,  and,  unless 
you  happen  to  know  these  people  by  sight, 
you  miss  a  thousand  and  one  little  points 
which  are  the  sine  qua  non  of  the  show." 

"I  wonder  you  don't  write  another  Baed 
eker,"  said  the  Bibliomaniac — "The  Idiot's 
Hand-book  to  the  Horse  Show,  or  Who's  Who 
at  the  Garden." 

"It  would  be  a  good  idea,"  said  the  Idiot. 
"But  the  show  people  must  take  the  initia 
tive.  The  whole  thing  needs  a  live  man 
ager." 

"A  sort  of  Ward  MacAllister  again?" 
asked  Mr.  Brief. 

"No,  not  exactly,"  said  the  Idiot.  "So 
ciety  has  plenty  of  successors  to  Ward  Mac 
Allister.  What  they  seem  to  me  to  need 
most  is  a  P.  T.  Barnum.  A  man  like  that 
could  make  society  a  veritable  Klondike, 
and  with  the  Horse  Show  as  a  nucleus  he 
wouldn't  have  much  trouble  getting  the 
thing  started  along." 

193 


XVII 

SUGGESTION  TO   CHRISTMAS   SHOPPERS 

"T)Y  Jingo!"  said  the  Idiot,  as  he  wearily 
JO  took  his  place  at  the  breakfast-table 
the  other  morning,  "but  I'm  just  regularly 
tuckered  out." 

"Late  hours  again?"  asked  the  Lawyer. 

"Not  a  late  hour,"  returned  the  Idiot. 
"Matter  of  fact,  I  went  to  bed  last  night  at 
half-after  seven  and  never  waked  until  nine 
this  morning.  In  spite  of  all  that  sleep  and 
rest  I  feel  now  as  if  I'd  been  put  through  a 
threshing-machine.  Every  bone  in  my  body 
from  the  funny  to  the  medulla  aches  like  all 
possessed,  and  my  joints  creak  like  a  new 
pair  of  shoes  on  a  school-boy  in  church,  they 
are  so  stiff." 

"Oh  well,"  said  the  Doctor,  "what  of  it? 
194 


THE    GENIAL    IDIOT 

The  pace  that  kills  is  bound  to  have  some 
symptoms  preliminary  to  dissolution.  If 
you,  like  other  young  men  of  the  age,  burn 
the  candle  at  both  ends  and  in  the  middle, 
what  can  you  expect?  You  push  nature 
into  a  corner  and  then  growl  like  all  pos 
sessed  because  she  rebels." 

"Not  I,"  retorted  the  Idiot.  "Mr.  Ped- 
agog  and  the  Poet  and  Mr.  Bib  may  lead 
the  strenuous  life,  but  as  for  mine  the  simple 
life  is  the  thing.  I'm  not  striving  after  the 
unattainable.  I'm  not  wasting  my  physical 
substance  in  riotous  living.  The  cold  and 
clammy  touch  of  dissipation  is  not  writing 
letters  of  burning  condemnation  proceedings 
on  my  brow.  Excesses  in  any  form  are  ut 
terly  unknown  to  me,  and  from  one  end  of 
the  Subway  to  the  other  you  won't  find 
another  man  of  my  age  who  in  general  takes 
better  care  of  himself.  I  am  as  watchful 
of  my  own  needs  as  though  I  were  a  baby 
and  my  own  nurse  at  one  and  the  same  time. 
No  mother  could  watch  over  her  offspring 
more  tenderly  than  I  watch  over  me,  and — 

"Well,  then,  what  in  thunder  is  the  matter 
195 


THE    GENIAL    IDIOT 

with  you?"  cried  the  Lawyer,  irritated. 
"If  this  is  all  true,  why  on  earth  are  you 
proclaiming  yourself  as  a  physical  wreck? 
There  must  be  some  cause  for  your  condi 
tion." 

" There  is,"  said  the  Idiot,  meekly.  "I 
went  Christmas  shopping  yesterday  without 
having  previously  trained  for  it,  and  this  is 
the  result.  I  sometimes  wonder,  Doctor, 
that  you  gentlemen,  who  have  the  public 
health  more  or  less  in  your  hands,  don't  take 
the  initiative  and  stave  off  nervous  pros 
tration  and  other  ills  attendant  upon  a  run 
down  physical  condition  instead  of  waiting 
for  a  fully  developed  case  and  trying  to  cure 
it  after  the  fact.  The  ounce-of -pre  vent  ion 
idea  ought  to  be  incorporated,  it  seems  to 
me,  into  the  materia  mcdica." 

"What  would  you  have  us  do,  move 
mountains?"  demanded  the  Doctor.  "I'm 
not  afraid  to  tackle  almost  any  kind  of  fever 
known  to  medical  science,  but  the  shopping- 
fever — well,  it  is  incurable.  Once  it  gets 
hold  of  a  man  or  a  woman,  and  more  espe 
cially  a  woman,  there  isn't  anything  that  I 
196 


THE    GENIAL    IDIOT 

know  of  can  get  it  out  of  the  system.  I 
grant  you  that  it  is  as  much  of  a  disease  as 
scarlet,  typhoid,  or  any  other,  but  the  mind 
has  not  yet  been  discovered  that  can  find  a 
remedy  for  it  short  of  abject  poverty,  and 
even  that  has  been  known  to  fail." 

"That's  true  enough,"  said  the  Idiot, 
"but  what  you  can  do  is  to  make  it  harm 
less.  There  are  lots  of  diseases  that  our 
forefathers  used  to  regard  as  necessarily 
fatal  that  nowadays  we  look  upon  as  mere 
trifles,  because  people  can  be  put  physically 
into  such  a  condition  that  they  are  prac 
tically  immune  to  their  ravages." 

"Maybe  so— but  if  people  will  shop  they 
are  going  to  be  knocked  out  by  it.  I  don't 
see  that  we  doctors  can  do  anything  to  miti 
gate  the  evil  effects  of  the  consequences  ab 
initio.  After  the  event  we  can  pump  you 
full  of  quinine  and  cod-liver  oil  and  build 
you  up  again,  but  the  ounce  of  prevention 
for  shopping  troubles  is  as  easily  attainable 
as  a  ton  of  radium  to  a  man  with  eight  cents 
and  a  cancelled  postage-stamp  in  his  pocket," 
said  the  Doctor. 

197 


THE    GENIAL    IDIOT 

"Nonsense,  Doctor.  You're  only  fool 
ing,"  said  the  Idiot.  "A  college  president 
might  as  well  say  that  boys  will  play  foot 
ball,  and  that  there's  nothing  they  can  do 
to  stave  off  the  inevitable  consequences  of 
playing  the  game  to  one  who  isn't  prepared 
for  it.  You  know  as  well  as  anybody  else 
that  from  November  15th  to  December  24th 
every  year  an  epidemic  of  shopping  is  going 
to  break  out  in  our  midst.  You  know  that 
it  will  rage  violently  in  the  last  stage  be 
ginning  December  15th,  thanks  to  our  habit 
of  leaving  everything  to  the  last  minute. 
You  know  that  the  men  and  women  in  your 
care,  unless  they  have  properly  trained  for 
the  exigencies  of  the  epidemic  period,  will 
be  prostrated  physically  and  nervously, 
racked  in  bone  and  body,  aching  from  tip 
to  toe,  their  energy  exhausted  and  their 
spines  as  limp  as  a  rag,  and  yet  you  claim 
you  can  do  nothing.  What  would  we  think 
of  a  football  trainer  who  would  try  thus  to 
account  for  the  condition  of  his  eleven  at 
the  end  of  a  season?  We'd  bounce  him, 
that's  what." 

198 


THE    GENIAL    IDIOT 

" Perhaps  that  gigantic  intellect  of  yours 
has  something  to  suggest/'  sneered  the 
Doctor. 

" Certainly,"  quoth  the  Idiot.  "I  dreamed 
it  all  out  in  my  sleep  last  night.  I  dreamed 
that  you  and  I  together  had  started  a  series 
of  establishments  all  over  the  country— 

"To  eradicate  the  shopping  evil?"  laughed 
the  Doctor.  "A  sort  of  Keeley  Cure  for 
shopping  inebriates?" 

"Nay,  nay/'  retorted  the  Idiot.  "The 
shopping  inebriate  is  too  much  of  a  factor 
in  our  commercial  prosperity  to  make  such 
a  thing  as  that  popular.  My  scheme  was  a 
sort  of  shopnasium." 

"A  what?"  roared  the  Doctor. 

"A  shopnasium,"  explained  the  Idiot. 
"We  have  gymnasiums  in  which  we  teach 
gymnastics.  Why  not  have  a  shopnasium 
in  which  to  teach  what  we  might  call  shop- 
nasties  ?  Just  think  of  what  a  boon  it  would 
be  for  a  lot  of  delicate  women,  for  instance, 
who  know  that  along  about  Christmas-time 
they  must  hie  them  forth  to  the  department 
stores,  there  to  be  crushed  and  mauled  and 
199 


THE    GENIAL    IDIOT 

pulled  and  hauled  until  there  is  scarcely  any 
thing  left  to  them,  to  feel  that  they  could 
come  to  our  shopnasium  and  there  be  trained 
for  the  ordeal  which  they  cannot  escape." 

"Very  nice,"  said  the  Doctor.  "But  how 
on  earth  can  you  train  them?  That's  what 
I'd  like  to  know." 

"How?  Why,  how  on  earth  do  you  train 
a  football  team  except  by  practice?"  de 
manded  the  Idiot.  "It  wouldn't  take  a  very 
ingenious  mind  to  figure  out  a  game  called 
shopping  that  would  be  governed  by  rules 
similar  to  those  of  football.  Take  a  couple 
of  bargain- counters  for  the  goals.  Place 
one  at  one  end  of  the  shopnasium  and  one 
at  the  other.  Then  let  sixty  women  start 
from  number  one  and  try  to  get  to  number 
two  across  the  field  through  another  body 
of  sixty  women  bent  on  getting  to  the  other 
one,  and  vice  versa.  You  could  teach  'em 
all  the  arts  of  the  rush-line,  defence,  running 
around  the  ends,  breaking  through  the 
middle,  and  all  that.  At  first  the  scrim 
mage  would  be  pretty  hard  on  the  beginners, 
but  with  a  month's  practice  they'd  get  hard- 
200 


THE    GENIAL    IDIOT 

ened  to  it;  and  by  Christmas-time  there  isn't 
a  bargain  -  counter  in  the  country  they 
couldn't  reach  without  more  than  ordinary 
fatigue.  An  interesting  feature  of  the  game 
would  be  to  have  automatic  cars  and  auto 
mobiles  and  cabs  running  to  and  fro  across 
the  field  all  the  time  so  that  they  would 
become  absolute  masters  of  the  art  of  dodg 
ing  similar  vehicles  when  they  encounter 
them  in  real  life,  as  they  surely  must  when 
the  holiday  season  is  in  full  blast  and  they 
are  compelled  by  the  demands  of  the  hour 
to  go  out  into  the  world." 

"The  women  couldn't  stand  it/'  said  the 
Doctor.  "They  might  as  well  be  knocked 
out  at  the  real  thing  as  in  the  imita 
tion." 

"Not  at  all,"  said  the  Idiot.  "They 
wouldn't  be  knocked  out  if  you  gave  them 
preliminary  individual  exercise  with  punch- 
ing-bags,  dummies  for  tackle  practice,  and 
other  things  the  football  player  uses  to  make 
himself  tough  and  irresistible." 

"But  you  can't  reason  with  shopping  as 
you  do  with  football,"  suggested  the  Lawyer. 
201 


THE    GENIAL    IDIOT 

"Think  of  the  glory  of  winning  a  goal  which 
sustains  the  football  player  through  the 
toughest  of  fights.  The  knowledge  that  the 
nation  will  ring  with  its  plaudits  of  his  gallant 
achievement  is  half  the  backing  of  your 
quarter-back." 

"That's  all  right,"  said  the  Idiot,  "but 
the  make-up  of  the  average  woman  is  such 
that  what  pursuit  of  fame  does  for  the  glad 
iator,  the  chase  after  a  bargain  does  for  a 
woman.  I  have  known  women  so  worn  and 
weary  that  they  couldn't  get  up  for  break 
fast  who  had  a  lion's  strength  an  hour  later 
at  a  Monday  marked-do\\Ti  sale  of  laundry 
soap  and  Yeats's  poems.  What  the  goal  is 
to  the  man  the  bargain  is  to  the  woman,  so 
on  the  question  of  incentive  to  action,  Mr. 
Brief,  the  sexes  are  about  even.  I  really 
think,  Doctor,  there's  a  chance  here  for  you 
and  me  to  make  a  fortune.  Dr.  Capsule's 
Shopnasium,  opened  every  September  for 
the  training  and  development  of  expert 
shoppers  in  all  branches  of  shopnastics, 
under  the  medical  direction  of  yourself  and 
my  business  management  would  be  a  winner. 
202 


THE    GENIAL    IDIOT 

Moreover,  it  would  furnish  a  business  open 
ing  for  all  those  football  players  our  colleges 
are  turning  out,  for,  as  our  institution  grew 
and  we  established  branches  of  it  all  over  the 
country,  we  should,  of  course,  have  to  have 
managers  in  every  city,  and  who  better  to 
teach  all  these  things  than  the  expert  foot- 
ballist  of  the  hour?" 

"Oh,  well,"  said  the  Doctor,  "perhaps  it 
isn't  such  a  bad  thing,  after  all;  but  I  don't 
think  I  care  to  go  into  it.  I  don't  want  to 
be  rich." 

"Very  well,"  said  the  Idiot.  "That  being 
the  case,  I  will  modify  my  suggestion  some 
what  and  send  the  idea  to  President  Taylor 
of  Vassar  and  other  heads  of  women's  col 
leges.  As  things  are  now  they  all  ought  to 
have  a  course  of  shopping  for  the  benefit  of 
the  young  women  who  will  soon  graduate 
into  the  larger  institution  of  matrimony. 
That  is  the  only  way  I  can  see  for  us  to  build 
up  a  woman  of  the  future  who  will  be  able 
to  cope  with  the  strenuous  life  that  is  in 
volved  to-day  in  the  purchase  of  a  cake  of 
soap  to  send  to  one's  grandmother  at  Christ- 
14  203 


THE    GENIAL    IDIOT 

mas.  I  know,  for  I  have  been  through  it; 
and  rather  than  do  it  again  I  would  let  the 
All-American  eleven  for  1908  land  on  me 
after  a  running  broad  jump  of  sixteen  feet 
in  length  and  four  in  the  air." 


XVIII 

FOR  A  HAPPY   CHRISTMAS 

"T  HAVE  a  request  to  make  of  you  gentle- 
J_  men,"  observed  the  Idiot,  as  the  last 
buckwheat-cake  of  his  daily  allotment  dis 
appeared  within.  "And  I  sincerely  hope  you 
will  all  grant  it.  It  won't  cost  you  anything, 
and  will  save  you  a  lot  of  trouble." 

"I  promise  beforehand  under  such  con 
ditions,"  said  the  Doctor.  "The  promise 
that  doesn't  cost  anything  and  saves  a  lot  of 
trouble  is  the  kind  I  like  to  make." 

"Same  here,"  said  Mr.  Brief. 

"None  for  me,"  said  the  Bibliomaniac. 
"My  confidence  in  the  Idiot's  prophecies  is 
about  as  great  as  a  defeated  statesman's 
popular  plurality.  My  experience  with  him 
teaches  me  that  when  he  signals  no  trouble 
205 


THE    GENIAL    IDIOT 

ahead  then  is  the  time  to  look  out  for  squalls. 
Therefore,  you  can  count  me  out  on  this 
promise  he  wants  us  to  make." 

"All  right,"  said  the  Idiot.  "To  tell  the 
truth,  I  didn't  think  you'd  come  in  because 
I  didn't  believe  you  could  qualify.  You  see, 
the  promise  I  was  going  to  ask  you  to  make 
presupposes  a  certain  condition  which  you 
don't  fulfil.  I  was  going  to  ask  you,  gen 
tlemen,  when  Christmas  comes  to  give  me 
not  the  rich  and  beautiful  gifts  you  contem 
plate  putting  into  my  stocking,  but  their 
equivalent  in  cash.  Now  you,  Mr.  Bib,  never 
gave  me  anything  at  Christmas  but  advice, 
and  your  advice  has  no  cash  equivalent  that 
I  could  ever  find  out,  and  even  if  it  had  I'm 
long  on  it  now.  That  piece  of  advice  you 
gave  me  last  March  about  getting  my  head 
shaved  so  as  to  give  my  brain  a  little  air  I've 
never  been  able  to  use,  and  your  kind  sug 
gestion  of  last  August,  that  I  ought  to  have 
my  head  cut  off  as  a  sure  cure  of  chronic 
appendicitis,  which  you  Were  certain  I  had, 
doctors  tell  me  would  be  conducive  to  heart 
failure,  which  is  far  more  fatal  than  the  orig- 
206 


THE    GENIAL    IDIOT 

inal  disease.  The  only  use  to  which  I  can 
put  it,  on  my  word  of  honor,  is  to  give  it 
back  to  you  this  Christmas  with  my  best 
wishes." 

"Bosh!"  sneered  the  Bibliomaniac. 

"It  was,  indeed,"  said  the  Idiot.  "And 
there  isn't  any  market  for  it.  But  the  rest 
of  you  gentlemen  will  really  delight  my  soul 
if  you  will  do  as  I  ask.  You,  Mr.  Brief— 
what  is  the  use  of  your  paying  out  large 
sums  of  money,  devoting  hour  after  hour 
of  your  time,  and  practically  risking  your 
neck  in  choosing  it,  for  a  motor-car  for  me, 
when,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  I'd  rather  have 
the  money?  What's  the  use  of  giving 
thirty-six  hundred  dollars  for  an  automobile 
to  put  in  my  stocking  when  I'd  be  happier 
if  you'd  give  me  a  certified  check  for  twenty- 
five  hundred  dollars?  You  couldn't  get 
any  such  discount  from  the  manufacturers, 
and  I'd  be  more  greatly  pleased  into  the 
bargain.  And  you,  Doctor — generous  heart, 
that  you  are — why  in  thunder  should  you 
wear  yourself  out  between  now  and  Christ 
mas-day  looking  for  an  eighteen  -  hundred- 
207 


THE    GENIAL    IDIOT 

dollar  fur -lined  overcoat  for  me,  when,  as 
a  matter  of  actual  truth,  I'd  prefer  a 
twenty -two -dollar  ulster  with  ten  crisp 
one -hundred -dollar  bills  in  the  change- 
pocket?" 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  see  why  I  should,"  said 
the  Doctor.  "And  I  promise  you  I  won't. 
What's  more,  I'll  give  you  the  ulster  and 
the  ten  crisp  one  hundred  dollars  with 
out  fail  if  you'll  cash  my  check  for  eigh 
teen  hundred  dollars  and  give  me  the 
change." 

"Certainly,"  said  the  Idiot.  "How  will 
you  have  it,  in  dimes  or  nickels?" 

"Any  way  you  please,"  said  the  Doctor, 
with  a  wink  at  Mr  Brief. 

"All  right,"  returned  the  Idiot.  "Send 
up  the  ulster  and  the  ten  crisps  and  I'll  give 
you  my  check  for  the  balance.  Then  I'll 
do  the  same  by  you,  Mr.  Poet.  My  policy 
involves  a  square  deal  for  everybody  what 
ever  his  previous  condition  of  servitude. 
Last  year,  you  may  remember,  you  sent  me 
a  cigar  and  a  lovely  little  poem  of  your  own 
composition: 

208 


THE    GENIAL    IDIOT 

"  When  I  am  blue  as  indigo,  you  wrote, 
And  cold  as  is  the  Arctic  snow, 

Give  me  no  megrims  rotting. 
I  choose  the  friend 
The  Heavens  send 

Who  takes  me  Idiyachting." 

Remember  that?  Well,  it  was  a  mighty 
nice  present,  and  I  wouldn't  sell  it  for  a 
million  abandoned  farms  up  in  New  Hamp 
shire,  but  this  year  I'd  rather  have  the  money 
— say  one  thousand  dollars  and  five  cents — 
a  thousand  dollars  instead  of  the  poem  and 
five  cents  in  place  of  the  cigar." 

"I  am  afraid  you  value  my  verse  too  high/' 
smiled  the  Poet. 

"Not  that  one,"  said  the  Idiot.  "The 
mere  words  don't  amount  to  much.  I  could 
probably  buy  twice  as  many  just  as  good 
for  four  dollars,  but  the  way  in  which  you 
arranged  them,  and  the  sentiment  they 
conveyed,  made  them  practically  priceless 
to  me.  I  set  their  value  at  a  thousand  dol 
lars  because  that  is  the  minimum  sum  at 
which  I  can  be  tempted  to  part  with  things 
that  on  principle  I  should  always  like  to 
209 


THE    GENIAL    IDIOT 

keep — like  my  word  of  honor,  my  conscience, 
my  political  views,  and  other  things  a  fellow 
shouldn't  let  go  of  for  minor  considerations. 
The  value  of  the  cigar  I  may  have  placed 
too  high,  but  the  poem — never." 

"  And  yet  you  don't  want  another?"  asked 
the  Poet,  reproachfully. 

"Indeed  I  do,"  returned  the  Idiot,  "but 
I  can't  afford  to  own  so  much  literary  prop 
erty  any  more  than  I  can  afford  to  possess 
Mr.  Brief's  automobile — and  this  is  precisely 
what  I  am  driving  at.  So  many  people 
nowadays  present  us  at  Christmas  with 
objects  we  can't  afford  to  own,  that  we 
cannot  possibly  repay,  and  overwhelm  us 
with  luxuries  when  we  are  starving  for  our 
necessities,  so  that  Christmas,  instead  of 
bringing  happiness  with  it,  brings  trial  and 
tribulation.  I  know  of  a  case  last  year 
where  a  very  generous-hearted  individual 
sent  a  set  of  Ruskin,  superbly  bound  in  full 
calf  that  would  have  set  the  Bibliomaniac 
here  crazy  with  joy,  to  a  widow  who  had 
just  pawned  her  wedding-ring  to  buy  a 
Christmas  turkey  for  her  children.  A  bundle 
210 


THE    GENIAL    IDIOT 

of  kindling-wood  would  have  been  far  more 
welcome  than  a  Carnegie  library  at  that 
moment,  and  yet  here  was  a  generous  soul 
who  was  ready  to  spend  a  good  hundred 
dollars  to  make  the  recipient  happy.  Do  you 
suppose  the  lady  looked  upon  that  sumptu 
ous  Ruskin  with  anything  but  misery  in  her 
heart?" 

"Oh,  well,  she  could  have  pawned  that 
instead  of  her  wedding-ring,"  sniffed  the 
Bibliomaniac. 

"She  couldn't  for  two  reasons,"  said  the 
Idiot.  "In  the  first  place,  her  sensibilities 
were  such  that  she  could  not  have  pawned  a 
present  just  received,  and,  in  the  second 
place,  she  lived  in  the  town  of  Hohokus  on 
the  Nepperhan,  and  there  isn't  a  pawnshop 
within  a  radius  of  fifty  miles  of  her  home. 
Besides,  it's  easier  to  sneak  into  a  pawnshop 
with  a  wedding-ring  for  your  collateral  than 
to  drive  up  with  a  van  big  enough  to  hold  a 
complete  set  of  Ruskin  bound  in  full  calf. 
It  takes  nerve  and  experience  to  do  that  with 
a  cool  and  careless  mien,  and,  whatever  you 
may  have  in  that  respect,  Mr.  Bib,  there  are 
211 


THE    GENIAL    IDIOT 

few  refined  widows  in  reduced  circumstances 
who  are  similarly  gifted.  Then  take  the 
case  of  my  friend  Billups — some  sharp  of  a 
tailor  got  out  a  judgment  against  Billups 
for  ninety-eight  dollars  for  a  bill  he  couldn't 
pay  on  the  fifteenth  of  December.  Billups 
got  his  name  in  the  papers,  and  received 
enough  notoriety  to  fill  him  with  ambition 
to  go  on  the  stage,  and  it  nearly  killed  him, 
and  what  do  you  suppose  his  friends  did 
when  Christmas  came  around?  Did  they 
pay  off  that  judgment  and  relieve  him  of 
the  odium  of  having  his  name  chalked  up 
on  the  public  slate?  Not  they.  They  sent 
him  forty  dollars'  worth  of  golf-clubs,  six 
teen  dollars'  worth  of  cuff-buttons,  eight 
ten-dollar  umbrellas,  a  half-dozen  silver 
match-boxes,  a  cigar-cutter,  and  about  two 
hundred  dollars'  worth  of  other  trash  that 
he's  got  to  pay  storage-room  for.  And  on 
top  of  that,  in  order  to  keep  up  his  end, 
Billups  has  had  to  hang  up  a  lot  of  tradesmen 
for  the  match-cases  and  cigar-cutters  and 
umbrellas  and  trash  he's  sent  to  his  generous 
friends  in  return  for  their  generosity." 
212 


THE    GENIAL    IDIOT 

"Oh,  rot/'  interrupted  the  Bibliomaniac. 
"What  an  idiot  your  friend  Billups  must  be. 
Why  didn't  he  send  the  presents  he  received 
to  others,  and  so  saved  his  money  to  pay 
his  debts  with?" 

"Well,  I  guess  he  didn't  think  of  that," 
said  the  Idiot.  "We  haven't  all  got  the 
science  of  Christmas-giving  down  as  fine  as 
you  have,  Mr.  Bib.  But  that  is  a  valuable 
suggestion  of  yours  and  I'll  put  it  clown 
among  the  things  that  can  be  done  in  the 
plan  I  am  formulating  for  the  painless  Christ 
mas." 

"We  can't  relieve  one  another's  necessities 
unless  we  know  what  they  are,  can  we?" 
asked  Mr.  Whitechoker. 

"We  can  if  we  adopt  my  cash  system," 
said  the  Idiot.  "For  instance,  I  know  that 
I  need  a  dozen  pairs  of  new  socks.  Modesty 
would  prevent  my  announcing  this  fact  to 
the  world,  and  as  long  as  I  wear  shoes  you'd 
never  find  it  out,  but  if,  when  Christmas 
came,  you  gave  me  twenty-five  dollars  in 
stead  of  Foxe's  Book  of  Martyrs  in  words  of 
one  syllable,  you  would  relieve  my  neces- 
213 


THE    GENIAL    IDIOT 

sities  and  so  earn  my  everlasting  gratitude. 
Dr.  Capsule  here  wouldn't  acknowledge  to 
you  or  to  me  that  his  suspenders  are  held 
together  in  three  places  with  safety-pins,  and 
will  so  continue  to  be  until  these  prosperous 
times  moderate;  but  if  we  were  to  present 
him  with  nine  dollars  and  sixty-eight  cents 
on  Christmas  morning,  we  should  discern  a 
look  of  gratitude  in  his  eye  on  that  suspender 
account  that  would  be  missing  if  we  were 
to  hand  him  out  a  seven-dollar  gold-mounted 
shaving  -  mug  instead.  We  should  have 
shown  our  generous  spirit  on  his  behalf, 
which  is  all  a  Christmas  present  ever  does, 
whether  it  is  a  diamond  tiara  or  a  chain  of 
sausages,  and  at  the  same  time  have  relieved 
his  anxieties  about  his  braces.  His  gratitude 
would  be  double-barrelled,  and  his  happiness 
a  surer  shot.  Give  us  the  money,  say  I,  and 
let  us  relieve  our  necessities  first,  and  then 
if  there  is  anything  left  over  we  can  buy 
some  memorial  of  the  day  with  the  balance." 
"Well,  I  think  it's  a  pretty  good  plan," 
said  Mrs.  Pedagog.  "It  would  save  a  lot 
of  waste,  anyhow.  But  it  isn't  possible  for 
214 


THE    GENIAL    IDIOT 

all  of  us  to  do  it,  Mr.  Idiot.  I,  for  instance, 
haven't  any  money  to  give  you." 

"You  could  give  me  something  better," 
said  the  Idiot.  "I  wouldn't  accept  any 
money  from  you  for  a  Christmas  present." 

"Then  what  shall  it  be?"  asked  the  Land 
lady. 

"Well  —  a  receipt  in  full  for  my  bill  to 
date,"  said  the  Idiot. 

"Mercy!"  cried  the  Landlady.  "I  couldn't 
afford  that—" 

"Oh,  yes  you  could,"  said  the  Idiot.  "Be 
cause  for  your  Christmas  I'd  give  you  a 
check  in  full  for  the  amount." 

"Oh— I  see,"  smiled  the  Landlady.  "Then 
what  do  we  get  for  our  Christmas?  Strikes 
me  it's  about  as  broad  as  it  is  long." 

"Precisely,"  said  the  Idiot.  "We  get 
even — and  that's  about  as  conducive  to  a 
happy  Christmas,  to  Peace  on  Earth  and 
Good-will  to  men,  as  any  condition  I  know 
of.  If  I  can  get  square  for  Christmas  I 
don't  want  anything  else." 

THE    END 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


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THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


